Blood Red Moon
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: Jane and the team are called in to investigate a series of blood-less murders in San Francisco, home to cable cars, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the highest 'vampire' population in California. Dedicated to Elodie Wolfe!
1. Chapter 1

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 1**_

"_Opa!"_

The entire restaurant joined in the toast, as the table of 5 tossed back the individual shots of Ouzo. It was literally liquid fire, 46% proof alcohol distilled from grapes, anise seeds and berries and it was a must for anyone dining at _Nico's_, the traditional Greek restaurant just blocks from CBI HQ in downtown Sacramento. The restaurant owner, Kostas Tsekouras, watched the agents from his place behind the bar and smiled to himself. They were regular customers, these CBI folks. He watched them every time, had become familiar with their ways, their personalities, their tastes. He was a _restauranteur._ It was his job to keep them happy and therefore, coming back.

He watched as they downed the after-dinner shots, and he studied their reactions. The Asian man squinted his eyes as the liquor hit, broke into a sweat and shook his head, but kept it down. He was the designated driver, Kostas could tell. It was his first taste of alcohol all night. His loss. He was predictable in his dining, preferring to order the _moussaka_ every time. A man of routine and integrity and patience.

The big, burly man downed the Ouzo in one shot as well and banged his fist on the table several times, but Kostas could tell he liked it He had a huge appetite, that one, ordering 3 lamb _gyros_ this time, and finishing with the _baklava_. A man of strength, appetites and passion. He loved the red-haired woman, Kostas could tell. Kostas was also a man of passion. He understood the burly man well.

The red-haired woman gasped as the Ouzo burned its way down her lovely throat. She laughed until her eyes watered, and the burly man seemed naturally attentive to her distress, passing her his glass of Coke to wash the fire down. She was a beauty, but no shrinking violet, and she always tried something different on the menu, frequently the chef's special. Tonight it had been the _yemista_ with a salad. She had an appetite too, but was conscious of her shape. Kostas could appreciate that.

The smaller woman handled her shot very well, her green eyes growing large as the liquid hit her tongue, but she fought the urge to gulp down her ice water, and Kostas could tell she was a tough little thing, probably as stubborn as a Greek, and he liked her for it. She was frequently the designated driver, not given to much drinking. That meant she was strong willed and self-controlled, probably the boss. Kostas smiled to himself. The small ones in life were often the toughest. He admired strong women.

The blond man was another story entirely.

He had put away a Scotch before dinner, two and a half glasses of dry red Aegean wine and was responsible for ordering this round of Ouzo in the first place. He had also ordered appetizers to share with the entire table, and had beamed when they had picked and tasted and enjoyed everything he had provided. He also usually varied his menu, choosing the _Htapothi sti skhara_ tonight, the grilled octopus, and Kostas noticed that while he enjoyed sharing his meal with the others, he also more often enjoyed making them uncomfortable, slurping up the tentacles and suckers tonight with great zeal. The last time, it had been the _kokoretsi,_ the seasoned lamb innards, which he had gone into great length to dissect and discuss. He was frequently here late at night at the bar, alone, watching people and drinking and talking to the waiters, but the only thing Kostas knew was that his name was Patrick. He was, as they said in Greek, a closed book.

The man named Patrick turned to throw a wink at Kostas, so the owner reached for 5 new glasses and the Ouzo bottle began to pour out a second round when he heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. The tough little woman with the great green eyes sighed and rose from the table, swaying a bit as the Ouzo worked its magic, but she shook off the blond man's hand as he reached to steady her. Kostas grinned. They were in the dance, he knew. Advance, retreat, parry, strike. Neither was pursuing, both waiting for the other to make the first move, defensive and wary but willing, and Kostas shook his head. That was not the Greek way. She would be having his baby by now, if they were Greek.

The small woman came back to the table, spoke to the group and three of them let out a long drawn out groan. Kostas could tell they had just finished work, but were being called back. They were CBI agents, after all. Something bad had just happened, somewhere in California. He watched them stand, watched the burly man take the red-haired woman's elbow and together, the four of them headed for the door.

The blond man turned and strolled over to the bar.

"Thank you, Kostas. That was a wonderful meal." He pulled out several large bills from his wallet. "I especially enjoyed the octopus."

Kostas smiled. "You enjoy many strange things, Mr. Patrick. I'm sorry you did not get to enjoy your second round." He pocketed the bills, not bothering to check. The man was always more than generous.

"Ah, well." He pulled out another large bill, passed it discreetly into Kostas' hand. "Make it one for the house."

"Thank you, sir. We shall see you again soon?"

"I do hope so. You never know. Good night." And he too turned and strolled for the door.

Kostas smiled again, pulled out many more glasses, and began to pour.

______________________________________

They'd had time only to stop back at the CBI HQ to grab perpetually-packed overnight bags from their lockers and barely made it to the airport by midnight. It was a Red Eye flight to San Francisco, full of course, and they were scattered across the plane, Cho at one of the emergency exits, Van Pelt and Lisbon two rows behind, and Jane seated next to Rigsby across the aisle, yet another row back. The lights were dimmed, the Ouzo still strong in their veins, and the only thing on anyone's mind that late at night was sleep.

Except of course, for Patrick Jane.

He tried to be quiet, really he did. He had ordered another Scotch, hoping the extra liquor and the hum of the engine might just lull him off to sleep. He had brought his advanced Sudoku book, the Kakuro, and had burned through the puzzles at lightning speed. He'd read the in-flight magazines, did the LA Times crossword, all the while listening to Mozart's Requiem on the in-flight headphones, but all of that had only taken him just over an hour. They still had another to go. He glanced over at the women, then turned his gaze on Rigsby.

The man was snoring softly, head inclined in Jane's direction. Jane tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, Rigsby."

Snore interrupted.

"Rigsby, wake up."

"What? Who? Mom? What?" Hazel eyes fluttered open.

"Wanna see a magic trick?"

"What?"

"Wanna see a magic trick?"

Rigsby looked around the dark interior of the plane. "You…you woke me up to show me a magic trick?"

"Yeah. Wanna see it?"

He grunted, rolled his eyes. "No, I don't wanna see a magic trick. I wanna go back to sleep."

Jane grinned. "Come on. It'll be fun. You'll like it. Do you have five dollars?"

"What?" Now Rigsby was fully awake, and irritable. Like a bear. "No way! I'm not giving you five dollars!"

A little white head bobbed in the seat in front, and turned to shush them both.

"Come on," insisted Jane. "It's part of the trick. Take out a five dollar bill and write a wish on it right now."

"A wish?"

"Yes. A wish."

Rigsby stared at him for a long moment. "You're whacked, you know that?" But he did reach into his pocket and pull out a fiver. Jane handed him a pen.

"Okay, don't let me see. But write your wish down across the top."

"I wish to go back to sleep," Rigsby mumbled, but the slow growing grin on his face said otherwise. "There. Done."

"Good. Now fold it in half, and in half again."

Rigsby did as he was told.

"Now give it to me."

The big man looked up skeptically.

"I told you, it's part of the trick. No moolah, no magic. Hand it over, Greenspan."

The fiver passed into Jane's fingers, and quickly disappeared into his suit pocket.

Jane leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

"That's not funny," growled Rigsby.

"Ah ah." Jane held up a hand. "Three, two, one, go…"

And from the row ahead and across the aisle, Grace Van Pelt rose out of her seat and disappeared down the corridor to the washroom. Jane opened his eyes.

"_Abracadabra_," he grinned as he slipped out of his seat and into Van Pelt's across the aisle, next to Lisbon.

Rigsby leaned back in his seat and smiled. On the top of the five dollar bill, he had written: _"I wish I could sit next to Grace, not you." _The flight was packed. When Van Pelt returned, he would get his wish. Magic.

Patrick Jane nudged Teresa Lisbon.

"Wanna see a magic trick?"

One green eye opened.

They had only one hour left before they landed in San Francisco, but it was going to be a very long hour indeed…

_**End of chapter 1**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 2**_

It was dark, it was cold and it was raining in San Francisco.

"Okay people, listen up."

Teresa Lisbon pulled a file from her briefcase as Cho manoevered the rental van out of the San Francisco International Airport parkade. "The vic is Deputy Mayor Vince Minor's youngest daughter, Natasha, which is why we're here, in the city by the Bay…"

There was no response, so she turned round to check. Rigsby was sitting directly behind her, dozing, Van Pelt in the plush seat next to him, eyes also closed. Jane was stretched out on his back in the rear seat, knees up, hands laced across his belly. They were all beat, she understood that. She felt it too. Exhausted, bone weary and more than just a little drunk.

Cho tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It was 2:30am, the wipers on full and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes on the road. Lisbon snorted and reached for the air conditioning, turning it up full blast. They would be awake soon enough.

"Let me start over," she began again. "Natasha Minor, age 22. Third in a string of suspicious homicides involving an alternate lifestyle community here in San Francisco –"

"Alternate lifestyle?" Grace asked, pulling her jacket over her shoulders.

"Goth culture."

"Sweet," sang Jane from the back.

"Creepy," muttered Cho from the front.

"Actually, Minelli said the Deputy Mayor's office requested us specifically for this."

"Us?" asked Van Pelt. "Why us?"

"Because we're the best," mumbled Rigsby, eyes still closed. "The best in all Kal-ee-for-nigh-yay."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Rigsby," Lisbon smirked. "The Deputy Mayor's wife wants Jane."

"Whaaaat?" moaned the voice from the back.

"Yep. She's a big fan. Wants you to use your 'psychic powers' to find out who killed her daughter."

The groan was unmistakable and he wrapped his arms over his head.

Pleased, Lisbon went on. "So it's not just Goth culture, but apparently a subculture of Goth culture. _Sanguinarian _culture, to be exact…" She waited, and as expected, only Jane reacted.

"It was the octopus, wasn't it?" he moaned again. "It had to have been. I drank far too much, ate an octopus, and now I'm in San Francisco in the rain, where a mayor's wife wants me to channel her undead now dead vampire daughter. Please someone tell me I'm hallucinating."

"Vampire?" Rigsby sat up.

"Really? Vampires?" Van Pelt's eyes flashed.

"I hate vampires," muttered Cho.

Lisbon grinned. They were all awake now.

And she continued the briefing as they rolled onto the highway and headed for downtown San Francisco.

___________________________________

It was simply called _"Dark."_

It was a nightclub near the waterfront in an area of town known as the Tenderloin, one of the seedier areas of historical Nob Hill. It was an area that in 10 years could almost be trendy, with its graffiti walls, alternative arts groups, architectural details and cobbled alleyways. But for now, it was home to strip clubs, meth clinics and winos.

Oh yes, and vampires.

The exterior of _Dark _was completely black, and it boasted no windows. There wasn't even a sign, announcing itself as a club. It was sandwiched between an abandoned distillery and a Goth Museum, and there was only a flat metal door to differentiate it from the rest of the blackened brick wall of the distillery. On the door was a small symbol, painted in red.

"An ankh," muttered Jane, hands shoved in pockets, looking cold and miserable as the rain streaked down his face. "Egyptian symbol of eternal life."

"Lovely," muttered an equally cold and miserable Lisbon, Rigsby lifted the yellow crime scene tape and yanked open the door to let them all in.

There were a few uniformed officers in the bar and a plainclothesman, who swung around as they came in. Hands on hips, he appraised them, then shook his head.

"You must be the gang from the CBI." His voice was deep, musical, his eyes dark, matching his skin.

"How can you tell?" asked Van Pelt, instantly charmed.

"Oh, it's obvious," said Jane. "We're soaked to the bone in San Francisco and our umbrellas are warm and dry at home in Sacramento."

The man smiled, offered a hand. "Detective Reuben Franks, homicide."

Lisbon shook it. "Sr. Agent Teresa Lisbon. Agents Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt." They all exchanged shakes, and the detective turned to Jane with a smirk.

"And you must be the psychic."

Jane paused a moment, and Lisbon could tell he was battling this one. Finally, he smiled a steely smile and took the man's offered hand.

"Patrick Jane." He didn't let go. "How's your mother?"

Franks' eyes grew wide. "My…my mother? How…?"

Jane raised his eyebrows. "Well, your father's not around to help, is he? And your sister is so busy with her own family, and your wife won't help, not after the divorce and all. Too bad you let that one slide. She was a good woman, your ex-wife. But it's not_ her_ mother, after all. She never could stand the old goat, and tell the truth, neither can you. But you're the only son and a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. It's a lot of stress, sure, but you're coping. Sad I know. These things take time."

Franks glanced around, shocked but impressed. "I…uh, wow. Okay, you're good, my friend. Real good."

"Yes." Jane finally let go. "I am."

Lisbon sighed. "Can you show us the crime scene please? I trust her body's been removed…?"

Franks still hadn't quite recovered his composure. "Uh, yeah. Coroner took her an hour ago. Come on. It's upstairs…"

He led the way to a very dark alcove, lit only by a red photographic light, to a wrought-iron spiral staircase. They climbed single file to a huge loft, painted black, gold and red, stenciled with French fleurs-de-lis, Egyptian eyes, and other beautiful but slightly eerie symbols. There were black leather couches everywhere, beanbag chairs and two leopard-skinned loungers on an ebony-stained wood floor. There were windows here, high up and mullioned and darkened with soot, but at least through them they could see the rain. It didn't seem such a dungeon.

Over the couches was painted the words _"After Dark."_

Fitting.

"Over here," said Franks, leading them to the taped outline on the floor. "She died of massive blood loss, but as you can see, there's very little blood anywhere. We're thinking one of these good folks decided to cash her in and clean her out. Quite literally."

Cho shivered.

"Puncture wounds?" asked Rigsby.

"Naturally. Two, like you'd expect. These folks either file their canines, or have acrylic fangs cosmetically attached. Forensics is checking for saliva around the wound."

"San Francisco has a high vampire population, yeh?" Jane now, wandering the room, hands in pockets, taking it all in.

"Actually, the highest in California of people who profess the lifestyle, yes," said Franks. "They're not actually vampires. They're just Goths who take things a little too far."

Lisbon swung around. "Why?"

"Why? Why take things a little too far?"

"No, why San Francisco?"

Franks shrugged. "Why do Indie Rockers go to Seattle or Ernie and Flo retire to Phoenix? Who knows? San Francisco has always been an open city, very welcoming to folks of, shall we say, differing inclinations."

Jane paused, one hand stroking the leopard skin lounge chair. "Why on the floor?"

"Uh, come again?"

"I mean, look at all these lovely couches. Look at the lounge chairs. They're beautiful." He plopped into one, stretched out his legs. "And comfy. It takes a long time to drain someone's blood. Why not be comfortable while you're doing it?"

Franks nodded. "That's a good question. I hadn't thought of that."

Jane smiled, happy to oblige.

Lisbon snorted. "When does the bar close down for the night?"

"Well, that's the funny thing. It doesn't. There's a bartender downstairs from 10:00pm to 7:00am, serving anyone who happens in, but upstairs is not supervised. It's like a private club. Anyone who belongs can come and go as they wish."

"And Natasha Minor belonged?" Van Pelt now.

"Apparently. But you'd need to talk to her parents for more information on her. She's the third body in 5 weeks, ex-sanguinated like that."

"Not all here, though?" Rigsby now, intent on taking notes.

"Oh no. Natasha was the only one found here. The first one, an as-yet unidentified male, was found in the water off Pier 28, five blocks east, and the second, Dan Renko, 24 year old college student, in an alley three blocks southeast."

Van Pelt again. "Did you get DNA from the first two?"

Franks bobbed his head. "Yes and no. First one was so bloated, half eaten by sealife, it was impossible. The second one, yeah, we got a sample, but no matches on file. We tested everyone connected to the case then, but Natasha's murder gives us another DNA pool to work from."

"The club," said Lisbon.

"Exactly."

"You said Natasha Minor was an _After Dark _member." Jane now, eyes closed, looking for all the world like he was asleep on the leopard-skinned lounge chair.

"Um, yes, apparently she was."

"Is there a list of members?"

"The judge is getting us a subpoena for that now. The bartender doesn't have it, and the owner won't produce it unless we have papers."

"Okay."

Franks looked around at the team, clasping his hands together and giving them a brisk rub. "Listen, have you guys checked into a hotel yet? You look beat."

Lisbon smiled. "Not yet. We've got rooms booked in…" She glanced at Cho.

"_The Fairmont."_

"_The Fairmont," _repeated Lisbon.

"Deputy Mayor book that one for you?"

Lisbon shrugged. "I guess so. Why?"

"It's a very nice place, not something I would expect from a CBI budget."

"I think we're getting preferential treatment."

Still over on the leopard-skinned couch, Jane grimaced.

"Just don't let them put you on the seventh floor."

They all looked at him.

"Why not?" asked Cho. He hated this kind of case.

Franks grinned. "The seventh floor is haunted."

The flash of lightning couldn't have been timed more perfectly, followed closely by the crack of thunder. Cho jumped.

"Welcome to San Francisco," said Jane.

__________________________________

To say the Fairmont was 'a very nice place' was a bit of an understatement. It was a grand place, with marble pillars and great fresh floral arrangements and high arched ceilings, not at all what the team was used to checking into for a working case. But the Deputy Mayor's office had spared no expense, wanting the very best for "the very best". At this time of night, however, no one really seemed to notice. The beds were calling.

Cho took his key card and overnight bag and beat a hasty retreat to the fourth floor. Van Pelt and Rigsby were at opposite ends of the sixth, and Lisbon and Jane waited as the night manager checked and double-checked for suitable availabilities. The rooms had been booked, and subsequently given away. Like the airplane, the hotel was packed, and the night manager was juggling for his life.

"I do have two rooms available. One queen bed each, non smoking."

"Perfect," said Lisbon, the promise of sleep just minutes away.

"Okaaay, here we go." The manager swiped two cards along a magnetic pad and presented them to the pair. "Rooms 712 and 713."

"The seventh floor?" asked Jane, eyes sparkling.

"Um, yes sir."

Lisbon looked at Jane. He was grinning from ear to ear. She rolled her eyes, snatching the key card to 712 and slipping it into her pocket. They rode up in the elevator together. He was grinning. They walked down the ornate hallway together. He was grinning. They stood side by side at separate doors, swiped their cards at the same time, pushed into their rooms. He was grinning. She shoved the door closed with a thump, thinking that if she had to see that grin for one more minute…

There was a knock inside her room.

She dropped her overnighter on the bed and turned around, her heart sinking at the sight of an adjoining door leading to the next room. Jane's room. She undid the latch at the top and opened the door. He was standing there, grinning.

"This is going to be fun, isn't it?"

"Good night, Jane." She closed the door in his face, and walked over to the bed, kicking off her shoes, slipping out of her damp jacket, pulling off her wet top…

There was a knocking on her window, and she whirled, holding her clothing against her chest for protection. The window was in fact a large sliding door leading out onto what was obviously an adjoining balcony. She could see his hand waving at her.

She stomped her foot. "Jane, you get to bed right now, or so help me, I'll shoot you right through this wall!"

The hand disappeared and a moment later, she could hear the squeak of a mattress.

"Good night Lisbon," came a muffled voice.

And then there was silence.

She threw herself on the bed, crawled under the covers and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_**End of Chapter 2**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 3**_

The Field Operations/Task Force Unit of the San Francisco City and County Police Department was located in the downtown Tenderloin District and was, unlike the rest of the neighbourhood, quite new. It had originally been housed in the historic old Hibernia Bank, but crime in the area had exceeded its ability to hold enough officers, and several units had merged into one in this stately new structure. Inside it was brightly lit, clean and cheery, quite a contrast to _the Fairmont's_ marbled opulence and _Dark's _gothic bleakness.

San Francisco was obviously a city of contrasts.

They had set up their own working space in a crammed corner of the Serious Crimes wing, and Det. Reuben Franks had taken great pains to get them settled. It was mid-morning, the rain having turned to drizzle at some point during the night, and they sat around Van Pelt's computer station with Starbucks and bagels, relatively bright and well-rested from the 5 hours sleep.

"Okay, so this is new," said Franks, leaning against one of the desks, holding a report in his hand. "Forensics found saliva around the wounds of Natasha Minor, but it is not the same as that found on Dan Renko. Renko's was male DNA, this was female."

Lisbon blew the steam from her raspberry latte. Her hair was pulled back in a pony, perfect to fend off rain. "Could they be unrelated cases?"

Franks shrugged. "Could be, I suppose. We usually get one or two of these every year, so sure, three could just be coincidence."

"But so close together?" Cho now. He'd been quieter than usual this trip. Cases like these disturbed him. "I mean, 5 weeks apart, in a 4 block radius?"

"Not likely," said Rigsby, munching his second bagel of the morning. "Maybe it's a couple, you know. A couple of vampires, working together."

"Or maybe an initiation of some sort?" Van Pelt now. Her hair was also pulled back, but in a low bun at the nape of her neck. Rain or no rain, these women would not be defeated. "If Natasha was a "new vampire", maybe the others were too. Maybe it's like a dare, see how far you can go, how much blood you can lose, before you pass out."

"Or die," mumbled Cho.

Rigsby nodded. "Like the suicide game, but for vampires."

Lisbon shrugged. "We need to remember that these people aren't really vampires. They can't "suck" blood. I guess you can drink it, but in large amounts, I understand you get sick."

"True," Franks nodded. "But bars like _Dark_ have special permits to serve small amounts of blood to paying customers."

Cho looked like he was going to be ill.

Rigsby was frowning. "But they can't actually 'suck' blood, can they? How do you 'drink someone dry' like that?"

"Oh they have ways," assured Franks. "And they're quite resourceful at how they collect it. They can get quite sophisticated, with siphons and hoses and baggies and goblets. Depends on the fetish. And usually, it's just symbolic. Like I said, folks like this have been around for awhile. Usually, they just stick to themselves, and no one gets hurt. Well, not seriously."

Van Pelt sat forward. She was fascinated either by the subject, or by Franks himself. "But not always," she stated. "You said you usually get one or two a year that go too far?"

The detective nodded again. "If the jugular is punctured just right, the blood pressure can cause massive and prolonged hemorrhaging, and finally death. Sometimes it's accidental, sometimes it's just plain murder. We've frequently found jars and medical baggies during investigations into previous cases. We've even had one of our hospitals robbed of blood, taken for, shall we say, personal consumption."

"When was that?" asked Cho, trying to stay focused.

"Oh, that was years ago. The guy was caught. Literally thought he was Dracula reborn. A doctor turned him in after the guy showed up in an ER vomiting blood. He almost died from iron poisoning."

"For now, let's assume all three cases are connected, shall we?" Lisbon glanced over at Jane, who had been leaning back in a wheeled chair, feet up on one of the desks, flipping through the latest issue of "O" magazine. "Jane, you've been awfully quiet lately. Any thoughts?"

"Oh, always. For one, have you ever noticed how pretty Oprah is? I mean, big, little, it doesn't really matter, does it? She's really a very attractive woman."

Everyone smirked, even Franks, who obviously still didn't know what to make of the consultant.

"I meant, about the case," pressed Lisbon.

"Oh! That. Well, yes naturally. They _are_ connected, and it _is _murder."

"Psychic vibe coming through, partner?" Franks folded his arms across his chest. "The dawning of the age of Aquarius sending you a sign?"

Jane grinned again, but the same steely-eyed one as last night, and Lisbon could tell the ribbing was getting to him. "Well, you know, when the moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars…"

Cho grunted. "Then peace will guide the planets…"

"And love will rule the stars," finished Jane. "It's called a hunch, Detective Franks. Based on a variety of observations that are simply too minute and tedious to explain."

"Try me."

Jane sighed and tossed the magazine onto the desk. "For one thing, as I pointed out last night, there were couches and cushions and chairs galore in the _After Dark_ lounge, but Natasha Minor was killed on or above the floor and her body dropped or left, not placed or posed. Why?"

There was no answer.

"Because this was not about comfort. This was about killing. All Goths, sanguinarians especially, are about the senses, pleasures, indulgences. Biting the flesh, drinking the blood, wearing the corsets and black lace and jewelry, it's all very neo-Victorian, very sensory and sensual. In a strange way, it's a repressed romanticism. In fact, the entire vampire mythos is about seduction, giving in to darker desires of power and sex, domination and submission, life and death. John Doe was dumped in the bay. Renko in an alley. Natasha on the floor. Even if this was a "ritual gone wrong," he made little quotation marks with his fingers, "they would have respected the donors enough to give them dignity in death." He raised his eyebrows. "Especially in death."

No one said a word. It made sense.

"John Doe and Dan Renko, both acts likely committed by the same man, both bodies disposed of causally. No passion, no respect, just kill 'em, drain 'em and dump 'em. Natasha, on the other hand, in the club by a woman. Very personal. Still no respect, but there was passion of a sort. It was a very emotional yet coldly executed crime. Absolute opposites, very much connected."

"Okay, but how?" asked Franks, but it seemed that some of the belligerence had gone out of him.

"I'm not sure." Jane shrugged. "Peace isn't guiding the planets just yet."

Franks glanced around at the team, subdued. "I get the feeling he's usually right about these things, huh?"

There were "yeahs" and "pretty much"s all around.

Lisbon stood up. "Okay, Rigsby and Cho, you go back to the bar and see if the owner's got that membership list for us. Jane, you and Van Pelt will come with me to Natasha Minor's home, talk to her parents, look at her room –"

"Ah, no." Jane looked at her. "I'm going with Cho and Rigsby."

"Noo," Lisbon grinned. "You're coming with Van Pelt and me."

"Noo," Jane grinned. "I'm going with Cho and Rigsby."

"Who died and made you boss?"

Jane pulled his feet off the desk and sat forward, folding his hands between his knees. "I could go with you. I'll probably behave. I probably will, yeh? I'll try. I'll try really hard not to tell the Deputy Mayor that he won't get re-elected next year, or tell the mom that she is superficial, supercilious and neglectful, or that her youngest baby has been sexually active since the age of oh, say, 12, and that her first sexual experience was with a much older man, perhaps one of dad's aids, or a relative, a brother, uncle, hey maybe even dad himself –"

"Okay, okay," snapped Lisbon, hands in the air. "Fine. You can go with Cho and Rigsby. Detective Franks, can you accompany us to the Minor residence?"

Franks was clearly out of his league. He kept looking from Lisbon to Jane and back again. "Um, yeah, sure. We can take my car."

"Let's go," and as she walked past Jane, she swatted him on the back of the head.

"Ow." He grinned, turned in his chair to watch her go.

Cho and Rigsby stepped over after the others had gone.

"You push it, man," said Cho. "You really do."

"Yeah," grinned Rigsby, shoving his hands in his pockets. "One day she's gonna kick your butt. Bad."

"Bah. She can't catch me. Short little legs."

They all grinned and headed for the van.

__________________________________

Deputy Mayor Vincent Minor greeted them at the door of his Pacific Heights manor and ushered them in and out of the drizzle. It was a grand old house, built almost a century ago, immediately after the quake in 1906. The foyer was very large, the flooring black and white checked tile, the walls painted sunny yellow, and huge, healthy palms dotted the corners. It looked like a conservatory or a movie set, and Lisbon couldn't imagine anyone living here.

Minor himself was of shorter stature, late-50 or early 60s, stocky and tanned, his thick dark hair graying at the temples, giving him a steady, trustworthy appeal. Actually, Lisbon thought he looked like a former dockworker or steelman, who had worked his way to the top. She had no idea what to expect from the wife, Anita. As Minor led them to the green and yellow chintz sitting room, a woman with curly red hair in purple silk swept in.

"Is he here? Is he here?" The woman paused, delicate hands poised like a silver-screen actress, heart-shaped face turning in all directions. "Where, oh where, is Mr. Jane?"

Lisbon stole a glance at Van Pelt. She was biting her lip. Jane was right, he would have clawed his eyes out in the presence of this woman. She would make him pay dearly for this.

She stepped forward. "Mrs. Minor, I presume? My name is Sr. Agent Teresa Lisbon. This is Agent Van Pelt, and Detective Franks."

"But I need to see Mr. Patrick Jane." The woman's face had been the victim of so much nip'n'tuck, that the fine skin was stretched across bone like a nylon. At first glance, she seemed 40, standing so close, it was almost gruesome.

Lisbon clasped her hands behind her back. "On my orders, Mr. Jane has returned to the scene of your daughter's demise. He can…" she racked her brains, trying to remember his phrase, "…'get a sense of her being'… more accurately there. I can assure you that he will visit you as soon as he possibly can. Until then, my colleagues and I need to ask you both some questions, if we may?"

"Of course, of course," said the steelworker, but the starlet looked ready to crumble into dust and blow away. "Come, my pet. Let's sit and drink some tea."

"Yes," she moaned theatrically, folding her legs underneath her and dropping into a plush floral chair. "Tea would soothe the soul."

Minor waved a hand, and all three took seats around the very formal sitting room. Tea was brought in by servants, even the lumps of sugar and splashes of milk added at a servant's hand. Lisbon marveled at the treatment. First the hotel, now this. You almost needed the vampires to balance things out.

"Was Natasha still living at home?" she asked after her first sip.

"Oh yes, she loved to be here. Her room was her sanctuary," moaned Anita Minor, her teacup making a tiny shaking noise as she sat it in its saucer.

"Well, pet, she _was _spending less and less time at home these past few months, wasn't she? She had other things that were demanding her time."

"What other things?" asked Lisbon.

"Well," Anita leaned forward and placed a long bony fine hand on Lisbon's sleeve. "She was experimenting with her sensitivities, channeling forces beyond our world. It was dark, very dark, but she was emerging victorious from it all. She was on the brink of a major spiritual upheaval. She was a leader, after all. Just like her father."

The steel worker beamed.

Lisbon couldn't help but smile. These two adored each other. It was obvious.

"Was Natasha still in school?"

"College, yes," said Minor. "She was studying Political Science. Top of her class, too. Only had one year to go."

Van Pelt lowered her own tea cup. "What kind of spiritual upheaval were you talking about?"

The pair exchanged glances.

"Well," said Anita. "She belonged to a community…"

"A lifestyle community," added Minor.

"The vampire community," said Lisbon.

"They call themselves Sanguinarians, dear," corrected Anita. "It was very romantic, very "Wuthering Heights". Tortured souls, deep emotional bonds, love enduring beyond the bounds of death."

"Was she in a relationship with anyone?" asked Lisbon.

Both parents shook their heads.

"She never mentioned anyone," muttered Minor, and it seemed that he just realized that he would never walk his daughter down the aisle, never cradle her baby in his arms. Sad. "She was very involved in that community."

"They're organizing, you know," Anita now, sitting back in the chair, as if the very act would support her. "She was campaigning to be leader."

Lisbon's brows rose. "Leader of the vampire community?"

"Sanguinarian, dear. And yes, she had goals, you see. She wanted to make a difference."

Lisbon glanced at Van Pelt and Franks. This was interesting. "Was she campaigning against anyone that you know of?"

"Why, the status quo, dear. The status quo." And Anita smiled a patronizing smile, and Lisbon could tell that, even in the midst of a gruesome twisted cultish death, Natasha Minor's parents were proud of her.

And as they finished their tea, checked out Natasha's room, confiscated her laptop and left Pacific Heights, Lisbon couldn't help but realize that they now had more questions than they had answers.

It wasn't so much the dawning of the Age of Aquarius rather than the rising of a blood red moon.

_**End of Chapter 3**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 4**_

They stopped in at the morgue to take one last look at Dan Renko's body. The family had lobbied to be given the body for burial, despite the ongoing homicide investigation, and the coroner and forensics team were running every kind of test imaginable before the funeral. Exhumations were torturous endeavours. Best do the work now, while they could.

Dan Renko was a 24 year old Sociology major, with multiple piercings in his brow, nostrils, chin, ears and tongue. His hair had been died black with red tips and his canines had been grooved to accept acrylic fangs. Obviously a sanguinarian, but for how long was a mystery. His throat had been punctured repeatedly, and his face was bruised as well. Jane grimaced at the sight, standing a little way back as was his custom. Rigsby turned to the coroner.

"Was John Doe like this?"

"If you mean all chewed up, he was worse. It was hard to tell what was man and was fishfood."

"I meant the bite marks."

"So did I."

Cho made a face.

Rigsby ran a finger along a smear of red on the shoulder. "What's this? Paint?"

"Oil-based, latex and pigment, like cosmetics. Face paint, most likely."

"Creepy." Rigsby tried to smile. It was difficult. "Can we see Natasha?"

"You sure you're done? 'Cause I gotta sign off on the guy. And that'll be it. He's going to the funeral home tomorrow."

Rigsby glanced at Cho and Jane. They shrugged.

"We're sure. Natasha please."

Dan Renko was rolled back into his dark metallic tomb, and Natasha rolled out of another. She had been a pretty girl, long red hair, black tips this time, blue eyes, nose ring, canine grooves. Her wounds were clean, two puncture marks deep and blue. There was some bruising on her throat, but at the sight of her, Jane moved forward, reaching under the sheet to take one of her wrists. He turned it over to reveal bruising there, as well.

He held up the wrist. "What do you make of this?" he asked the coroner.

The fellow shrugged. "She probably put up a bit of a struggle. Maybe things got out of hand. The saliva indicates a woman assailant, so maybe she wasn't expecting to go so far, or maybe she got scared in the process. I don't know. These people are sick. Who knows what makes them tick?"

Jane placed her hand carefully back on the table, covered it gently with the cloth. "Can you tell if the puncture wounds were made by acrylic teeth or real?"

"His, real. Hers, acrylic."

He nodded, but said no more.

"Well, thanks," said Rigsby. "I think we're done here." Again, he glanced at Cho and Jane. Again, they shrugged.

And the trio left the morgue very quickly and headed to the club.

___________________________________

They sat in the van outside of _Dark_ for several minutes, waiting for the owner to show. It was still drizzling, and Jane stared out the rain-streaked window at the stained brick building. They had been quiet on the way over. Somehow, you could never look at a body and return to small talk immediately afterward. It just seemed wrong. Disrespectful. It was just the way of things.

He was cold and wet and vowed he would buy himself an umbrella first chance he got. And a pair of gloves and a scarf. Maybe a pair of boots. His brown shoes were water-logged and they squeaked when he walked. He had always preferred the sun. Sacramento was fine. Malibu was better.

He sighed. He hadn't been to Malibu in a long time.

It was noon, and the small neon OPEN sign for the Goth Museum flicked on.

"Ooh," he said, his mood instantly brightening. "Be right back."

And he slipped from the van and trotted across the road into the museum.

Cho and Rigsby looked at each other.

Cho reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter, flipped it into the air and caught it on his wrist.

"Heads," said Rigsby. "No, no, tails. No, heads."

Cho stared at him.

"Okay, okay," Rigsby took a deep breath. "Heads."

Cho looked down. "Tails."

"Aw crap." And the big man stepped out of the car and followed the consultant across the deserted street.

Cho sighed and slipped the coin back into his pocket, turned some music on and waited in the car.

______________________________________

The museum was more of a shop than a museum. In fact, the only things that might qualify it as 'museum' were the elaborately framed black and white photographs on the walls. Some were stills from silent movies, depicting vampires and damsels, others were gargoyles that adorned English cathedrals, others simply close-ups of faces, pierced and tatooed and hauntingly beautiful in their own way. But these too were for sale, so 'museum' seemed a bit of a misnomer.

Rigsby found Jane hovering over a mirrored counter, fussing over something, and when he heard Rigsby's footsteps, he swung around and smiled.

He had fangs.

"Vat do you fink? Fekfy? "

Rigsby shook his head, grinning. "Oh yeah, you're a regular undead chick magnet, now. Love, affection and yellow plastic fangs. I'll try to remember that."

Jane's eyes sparkled as he spit the big plastic teeth out and slipped them into his pocket. "You should try it on Van Pelt. She loves vampires." And he turned to the clerk behind the mirrored counter. "I'll take them. But I'm going to keep looking if that's alright?"

"Knock yourself out," came the reply, and Rigsby studied the woman. She was perhaps forty years old, heavy set, with big dark hair, pink streaks, heavy eye makeup, and bright pink lips. She was wearing they 'typical uniform' of the Goth, black blouse, black silk scarf wrapped around her throat and hanging down her shoulders, black multilayered skirts and pointy boots. Her jewelry was ornate and quite Victorian, and Rigsby had to admit that, while she was not his type, the style definitely suited her. She seemed strong, confident, and, as Jane had said, "fekfy". Sexy.

He flashed her his badge. "Mind if we ask you a few questions?"

"_He's_ been asking questions ever since he got in here. He never asked permission."

Jane turned and smiled, then went back to his shopping.

"Yeah. We're working on that." Rigsby shrugged. "What's your name?"

"Ellianna Spider."

"Oh. Um… Nice."

"Ask her her mortal name," sang Jane from a rack full of black jackets and waist-coats.

"Mortal name?"

The woman sighed. "Nancy Bukovy."

"How long have you run this store, Ms. Bukovy…Spider?"

"5 years. I used to work in a bank."

"Are you familiar with any of the folks that hang out next door?"

"At _Dark? _Yeah, some. It's not really my crowd. But they shop here, so I get to know a few of them."

"Do you know a Dan Renko?"

She shook her head. Rigsby noticed Jane watching her response. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the vests.

"What about Natasha Minor?"

"What's she look like?"

Rigsby produced two small photos from his pocket, one of Renko, one of Minor. She studied Minor's photo. "I think I seen her around. She wasn't called Natasha, though. She was Natalia. Natalia Goldheart."

Jane ambled over and placed several items on the counter. He held up a vest. "What do you think?"

It was black paisley wool, with red satin lining and silver gargoyle buttons.

Rigsby repressed a grin. "It's you."

Jane beamed.

He purchased the waist-coat, the fangs, a pair of black leather gloves, a black scarf and a bright red umbrella with a silver skull handle. He pulled the gloves on, wrapped the scarf around his neck, and popped open the umbrella as they headed for the door.

"Oh, one more thing," he asked and he looked back at the woman behind the counter. "The stairs back there, where do they lead?"

She shrugged. "Second floor, I guess. We don't use it."

"We?"

"My brother and I. We run the place."

"What's your brother's name?"

"Morkaleb."

"Does he know the people at next door?"

"He keeps to himself. He's a private guy."

"Where's Morkaleb now?"

She shrugged.

"Thanks."

And they stepped out into the drizzle, Rigsby miserable and damp, Jane toasty and dry in his new gloves and scarf. He offered Rigsby a place under the umbrella. Rigsby just looked at him.

"That umbrella is cursed, man. It's got a skull for a handle."

Jane looked at the handle. "It's made in Taiwan."

"Still. Elianna and Morkaleb Spider? These folks are creepy."

"His mortal name is Jeffrey." Jane grinned. "Parents today have no imagination, do they, Wayne?"

"Tell me about it. How'd you know his real name?"

"It was on the business license behind the till."

"Cool."

A car had just pulled up, and two women dressed in Victorian gear stepped out. One was young, thin and blonde, the other mid-thirties and very beautiful. She glanced over at the men, black-lidded eyes sliding up and down, and smiled at Jane as she unlocked the door and stepped into the club. Jane looked at Rigsby again.

"Sure you don't want those fangs?"

Rigsby grunted, debating, as Cho joined them and they headed out of the rain, and into the _Dark._

___________________________________________

Her mortal name was Helen Cava. Her_ real_ name was Kiara Arabia.

She was stunning.

Chestnut brown curls cascading down her back, chocolate brown eyes and plum-coloured lips, she was wearing brown leather with burgundy accents. Not the typical "Goth uniform", but it was otherworldly and evocative, nonetheless. She carried a burgundy-leather folio, with an ankh engraved into its face. Presented it to Cho, smiling. In fact, the smile had not left her face once since they had entered the club. It reminded Jane of Rigsby at a smorgasbord, one where he was allowed only to look and not to touch.

Or in this case, taste.

She was accompanied by Danae Harkness, aka Emily Johnson, her personal assistant. Danae was striking in her own way, bleached blonde hair in a tight twist at the nape of her neck, icy blue eyes, black ribbon choker and black suit. She seemed like a coiled wire, holding all manners of tension in.

Cho was clearly uncomfortable. He hid it well, but to Jane it was obvious. He kept his eyes fixed on the papers in the folio, glancing up only when necessary. He cleared his throat.

"You have two sets of names on here beside each entry. Why?"

"Oh, that would be, uh, mortal names and vampire names," said Rigsby, nodding earnestly and rocking on his heels. He had been paying attention, earlier. He squared his shoulders when the brunette smiled at him. "Uh, is Dan Renko on there?"

"Yep," said Cho. "Or should I say, Luther Nightshade."

"Luther is a sweetie," Kiara Arabia purred. "Wouldn't hurt a fly. I haven't seen him around for a while, though. Exams, I guess."

"He's dead," said Cho again. "Two weeks ago. Killed just like Natasha."

"Oh. I didn't know…"

Jane was watching her. That looked like it had been a surprise.

"Did you have a relationship with him?" he asked as he strolled behind the small _After_ _Dark_ bar, studying the varieties of liquors displayed on the wall behind.

"We dabbled," she said softly, her dark eyes narrowing. "It could have been something. It was too early to tell."

"Do you "dabble" a lot?"

She arched an eyebrow, the question seeming to give her back the composure she had just lost. "Condemnation, Mr. Jane?"

"Oh, no no. Sorry. Just looking for connections."

"I have always gotten along with men far better than women."

Jane grinned, eyes glancing from Arabia to Harkness and back again. "Why is that?"

Kiara sighed. "I suppose I don't like competition."

"And Natasha Minor was competition?" Jane pulled open one of the small refrigerators under the bar. There were jars of dark red liquid, sealed and labeled, syringes and ice cube trays filled with red. "Yum."

She leaned up and over the bar. "Ever been tempted?"

"We have a complicated relationship, blood and I." He looked up at her. "Did you kill her?"

"Natalia? No."

"Did you, Ms. Harkness."

"No." Almost bored.

"How long have you two been working together?"

Harkness glanced at Arabia. "Almost a year?"

Arabia smiled. "About that, yes. Danae is very proficient."

"But not competition?"

The smile changed, lids lowered, not wanting to admit anything. Young Danae's jaw tightened.

Interesting.

"Um off the record," Rigsby shuffled his feet. "Have either of you ever killed anyone? By accident, I mean? Like take too much blood, they pass out, you can't save them, stuff like that. Your …hobby is kind of dangerous, you know, like skiing, or surfing or horseback riding. Has there ever been, like, an accidental… de-blooding?"

"Not that I can recall. But if I did," she moved away from the bar now, her eyes ranging up and down his tall strong body. "I wouldn't tell you, now would I?"

"Of course. O negative." Jane now, holding up one of the jars. Cho looked like he was going to pass out. "Do you use acrylic teeth?"

"Wanna find out?"

He smiled again. "Ah, maybe later. That was a yes?"

"They're so much prettier."

"Strong too, yeh?"

"Like the real thing. Only better."

Jane returned the jar to the fridge and strolled back to the others. "Natasha Minor was a Political Science major. Did that ever play into her membership in this community?"

Danae's eyes flashed. She pulled herself together quickly however, as Arabia laid a hand on her arm to quiet her.

"We are a fringe people, Mr. Jane," Arabia said calmly. "Outcasts, outsiders. We always have been. 300 years ago, it was clubs and spears and death by fire. Nowadays, it's stares and petitions and letters to the editor. We have always been marginalized, and for most of us, that's a conscious choice, rejecting the chains of the 'status quo' for the freedom and anonymity this lifestyle grants us. We are children of the night, by choice."

"And Natasha wanted to change that?"

The woman sighed. "As you said, she was a Political Science major. Her dad's the Deputy Mayor, for heaven's sake. She wanted to organize, to fight for 'our rights', so to speak, like the gay community back in the '70s."

"And you didn't want that."

She shrugged. "My club, my rules."

"Fair enough. Were you okay with that, Ms. Harkness?"

The young woman shrugged, blue eyes cold. "I didn't like it, but Kiara knows what she's doing. She's more patient that I am."

Cho's cell phone rang, and he snatched it up a little too quickly. "Hey Boss." He began to walk away, very grateful for the distraction.

Rigsby snagged the portfolio as Cho passed and held it up. "Can we take this, go over the list, compare it to the names in Dan Renko's circles?"

Harkness stepped forward to protest, but again, Arabia stopped her with a hand.

"Of course," said Kiara. "But please don't hassle my people. They get enough abuse as it is."

"We'll be discreet."

"I'm sure you will," she purred

Cho came back. "We done here? The boss wants to meet up and compare notes."

"You have excellent shoulders," said Kiara.

"What?" Cho froze, a deer caught in the headlights.

She strolled over to his side, ran her fingertips along the curve of his shoulder, up his deltoids, across the trapezius that traversed the back of his neck. "That kind of musculature is perfect for a donor, strong, blood-rich, quick healing. If you're ever interested…"

"No. Not at all. Thank you. We gotta go."

Rigsby swatted him with the portfolio. "Cho's just a little sensitive. Aren't you, buddy?"

"I'm going to the car." And he turned and walked away very quickly towards the spiral staircase.

"Now you," she turned her chocolate eyes on the bigger man. "With you, I'd say it's your hands…" She reached out and took one of his hands, turned it over and over, then finally placed it over her heart. Rigsby swallowed hard. She closed her eyes. "Mmm. Perfect fit."

Rigsby made a gurgling sound.

She released him and turned her gaze to Jane. He was grinning like a schoolboy.

She moved in very close, grabbed him by the scarf, pulled it tight. He was still grinning.

"Most vampires are energy vampires. Did you know that? They drain the life forces out of their donors, and feed on their psychic energy. You, Mr. Jane, you have enough energy to last a woman a lifetime, don't you?"

And she pulled the scarf closer and kissed him.

Rigsby's eyes were wide. Even Cho had paused at the stairs, staring.

When she pulled away, there was a tiny drop of blood on his bottom lip.

"Oops, sorry," Kiara purred, licking her lips slowly. "Warned you about the teeth."

He brushed it with his thumb and smiled at her.

"Jane," called Cho, clearly worried. "We gotta go."

Still smiling, he grabbed his umbrella, tucked it under his arm, shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled to the stairs. He turned back as if to say something, but the two grabbed him and shoved him down the steps and back into the San Francisco rain.

_**End of Chapter 4**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 5**_

_Song Lee's Chinese and American Cuisine Restaurant_ was just minutes from the Eddy Street Station, and it was a mainstay because of the take-out menu and discount prices they gave their neighbourhood police officers. The chicken almond guy ding was a specialty, as was the sweet and sour pork, and the team sat around the computers in their little corner of the precinct, eating out of individual containers. Rigsby and Van Pelt used forks, Cho, Jane, Lisbon and Franks chopsticks. Notepads and fortune cookies were scattered across the tables. The notebooks had been opened. The fortune cookies as of yet hadn't.

Lisbon popped a sliver of chicken into her mouth. "So Natasha's mom firmly believes that she was on the brink of a 'spiritual upheaval' in the community, and that she was on a campaign to become some sort of leader. Ideas?" She glanced at Jane. "Ideas relevant to the case, I mean."

He grinned and popped an almond into his mouth.

"Well," Rigsby now, well on his way to finishing his second container. "Ms. Cava, or Ms. Arabia,…Um, what do we call them? They have two names? Which ones do we use?" He glanced around at the faces, truly perplexed.

"Their _real _names," said both Jane and Lisbon at once.

Jane's grin broadened. "She would say her real name is Kiara Arabia."

"California law would say her real name is Helen Cava," said Lisbon, staring him down.

"Accident of birth."

"Definition of real."

Jane scowled. He didn't like to lose a battle of words.

"Anyway," Rigsby picked up. "So the 'owner of the club,' whatever her name is, mentioned that Natasha had been trying to organize the community, and that it didn't sit well with her."

"She also said she didn't like competition," grumbled Cho. He'd never been good with chopsticks. Small motor co-ordination. The almonds kept sliding off the sticks and back into the box. He growled and grabbed a fork. "Maybe Natasha was competition?"

"She also said she didn't kill Natasha," added Jane, smiling at Cho and using his chopsticks to toss back almond after almond with amazing dexterity. "She's lying about one of those statements."

Lisbon looked up. "Really? You think she killed Natasha?"

Jane shrugged. "I think it's a very strong possibility."

"Why?" asked Franks, still skeptical, but Rigsby beat him to it.

"I think it's the brother and sister, the ones who own the Goth shop."

"Museum," corrected Jane.

"Yeah, right. It's a regular vampire Walmart in there." He lifted the container, scooped the rest of the contents into his mouth. "We know we have two killers, right? A man and a woman? You got a brother and sister right there, watching everything, but not really a part of anything."

Jane was looking at him as if with newfound respect. "Very good, Rigsby. Observant, analytical and astute. So what do we need to do?"

Rigsby sat up a little straighter, proud to have received such a compliment from Jane. "Well, we need to bring them both down, interview them separately. Cho'll crack them like…like…like an almond guy ding."

"I hate cracking vampires," Cho snorted. "They get messy."

Jane glanced at Lisbon. "We definitely need to interview them both. Elianna Spider –"

"Who?" asked Van Pelt.

"Nancy Bukovy, the manager of the museum," Rigsby informed her, hoping to make more of an impression than Franks with his new-found moxy "Elianna Spider is her vampire name."

"Thank you, Rigsby," said Jane. "She was lying as well."

Franks put his box down with a thwack. "Can you explain some of this? This is so outside the realm of procedure it's not even funny. You can't just go around making statements like that. You need proof, evidence, facts."

They all turned to look at him.

"I mean, I could run around all day, saying "He is lying, she is lying, they are lying," based on hunches and 'tedious' observations and all, but in the end, it's just supposition, and if it doesn't get backed up with solid, dependable police work, it don't amount to a hill of beans in court. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Everyone went quiet.

Lisbon could remember when Jane was first assigned to the Serious Crimes Unit. She had been at least this skeptical. Maybe worse. Cho had been very pragmatic. Show him results, he didn't care how you got there. But it had been a serious fight with Lisbon, and it had taken months to put aside her training and instincts to be able to trust Jane's unorthodox methods, unique perspective and unusual mind.

Franks was doing rather well, all things considered.

Jane reached over, snapped open a fortune cookie, read the message, tossed the scrap of paper on the table and rose to his feet. He took a bite of the cookie, chewed thoughtfully, then turned to Franks.

"We asked Ms. Spider if she knew either Dan Renko or Natasha Minor. She said no to Renko, but that she needed to see a photo of Minor. Exactly the same question, two apparent strangers, two very different reactions."

Rigsby sat straight up. "Hey, yeah. That was weird."

"Weird," repeated Jane. "Why would she _know_ that she didn't know one, but _not_ know that she didn't know the other?"

"I'm getting a headache," muttered Cho.

"I'm still not following…" said Van Pelt, biting into her fortune cookie with a frown. "You think she was lying about Renko?"

"I do. She knew that she wasn't supposed to know Dan Renko, but honestly couldn't be sure about Natasha Minor, hence the photo. And why would she know she wasn't supposed to know Dan Renko?"

Cho sighed. "My fortune cookie says, '_Stay away from vampires. They give you headaches.'_"

Jane grinned. "Because she knew that Dan Renko was likely dead, but that the investigation hadn't led the police to the club yet."

"Or the museum," said Van Pelt.

"Or the museum," agreed Jane.

"So they _are_ involved," said Rigsby, quite proud of himself.

"So they are," said Jane, happily making the connections for them.

Franks shook his head. "Pure guess work, my friend. And you can't get a warrant on stuff like that, no matter how much sense it makes."

Jane shrugged. "Bah. Department of Justice loves this kind of stuff. Gives the Attorney General something to do." He popped the rest of his cookie in his mouth. "I'm going for a walk. See you at the hotel."

And he turned on his heel and left the room.

Lisbon looked at Franks. "You may be a great cop, Reuben, but right now, as far as I'm concerned, you're an ass."

He nodded. "Yeah, I get that alot…"

"You three, cross check the list of _After Dark_ members with the names on Dan Renko's list. And you," She rose, whacked Franks on the shoulder. "Come with me."

As she passed the table, she snatched up Jane's fortune and headed for the car, Reuben Franks in dejected pursuit.

Rigsby glanced at Cho. "Your fortune cookie doesn't say anything about vampires, does it?"

"Yes, it does."

"Does not." And he lunged forward and snatched it from his friend's hand "_'You are a deep and sensitive person.'_"

"Deep and sensitive people get headaches from vampires. It's a fact."

Rigsby grinned. "Mine says_ 'Fortune favours the bold.'_ Cool, huh?" He looked over at Van Pelt. "What does yours say?"

"Nothing," she said, a little too quickly.

"Sure it does."

"I don't want to read it."

"Come on," they both urged.

Her dark eyes flashed at Rigsby. "It says, _'You have met someone who will change your life forever.'_"

Rigsby beamed like the sun. "Fortune favours the bold." He said again, and he reached over, grabbed the last batch of cookies and shoved them in his pockets.

___________________________________

It was a damp evening in the Tenderloin, fog from the bay having settled like a blanket over the streets and alleyways. They followed him at a distance in Franks' dark sedan, watching as he deliberately turned in the direction opposite the hotel, and toward the club, museum and pier. She knew that had been his plan and felt the need to stay close, just in case, but not so close as to interfere. Plus, she had wanted Franks along, to see some good old-fashioned detective work, up close.

He swung the umbrella like a cane, it's metal tip making snapping sounds on the sidewalk. There were more people out on the streets than the night previous, perhaps due to the lack of rain, but it was still relatively quiet. A few diners, some tourists, more than a few hookers and drug-seekers constituted the early-evening crowd, and she watched as Jane paused to chat with a drunk sitting on the sidewalk. The man gestured with his bottle and Jane gave him his umbrella, scarf and gloves. They chatted some more, and Jane moved on, turning onto the street that _Dark_ called home.

They rolled silently down towards the club, passed it, and Lisbon raised her brows. She had been certain he was going back to check out the night life, but he kept on walking, hands in pockets, one, two, three blocks east, paused, oriented himself, turned south for one more block, and stopped at the entrance to an alley.

"Hmph," grunted Franks. "That's where they found Renko's body. In that alley."

Lisbon pursed her lips. They hadn't checked it out yet. Somehow Jane knew.

She watched him lift his hands, palms facing the darkness, then shrug, shove them back in his pockets, and continue walking.

"What was that all about?" asked Franks.

"No clue," she said. "He does that sometimes."

It was growing dark now, and there were few people on this part of the street. It was almost as if good people just knew not to come down here, that you were taking your chances if you ventured too far off the beaten path. She could tell the bay was close, the heaviness of the salt breeze, the extra damp chill, the cry of the gulls. Jane passed yet another alleyway, and stopped in his tracks, backed up to look down into the darkness, palms up yet again. Then, without any further theatrics, he simply walked into the alley and out of sight.

"Okay," said Lisbon. "Something's up. Let's go."

The sedan rolled over to a stop, and the pair climbed out. The alley was very dark, but streetlights from the far end caused everything to be backlit, showing dim silhouettes of walls, fire escapes, and two very large industrial dumpsters, the kind that are rented by the week or the month. Jane was crouching on the ground near one of them, running his fingertips along the asphalt.

"This is where Dan Renko died," he announced, not bothering to turn as they approached. Lisbon squinted, could see that the dark ground was darker here, a wide flat stain of something thick and oily. He rubbed his fingers together, sniffed, released a deep breath, and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. "John Doe, too, most likely. Actually…"

And he strode over to the closest garbage bin, placed his hands on the rim, hoisted himself up.

"Oh, please, Jane, no. What are you doing?" Lisbon groaned.

"Wish me luck," he sang, and he swung himself feet first into the bin with a clang.

Reuben Franks' eyes were wide with disbelief.

"You're not driving home with me," she called, as the bumping and clanging grew louder.

"Oh okay. Okay, this is bad…Whew, what a smell,…Oh look, wow, now why would someone throw _that _away? Okay, this is…whoo, my oh my…"

She had to smile. Franks was shaking his head, absolutely flabbergasted that anyone would willingly jump into a garbage bin, for any reason.

Moments later, Jane's upper half popped back up again, elbows wide apart, weight resting on his arms. "Okay, we have about one and a half inches of blood down here, filling the entire bottom of the dumpster," and he held up his fingers, thick with dark, red sticky goo.

"You sure it's blood?"

"Oh, yeah. Our killer probably got a good bite to the jugular, flipped them over the rim here, and drained them right into the bin. Perfect collection apparatus. He wasn't interested in dining, just killing."

Lisbon sighed. "Okay, I'll call it in."

"Call the coroner too."

"Why?" She glanced up, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

"There's another body in here."

_**End of Chapter 5**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 6**_

Despite her promise to the contrary, and despite the fact that the SFPD was crawling all over the crime scene, and despite the fact that he smelled like a garbage bin, Lisbon did in fact, drive him back to the hotel.

The rest of the team had met up with them in the alley, and the forensics unit was busy at work detailing the body. It appeared to have been in the dumpster for almost 3 weeks, putting it a full week before Dan Renko, and similarly, it had been bitten repeatedly and drained of all blood. But now, forensics had a massive DNA pool to sift through, figuratively and literally, at the bottom of the dumpster, and Lisbon knew they would be at it for days.

She glanced at him from the driver's seat, and she could tell he was tired. Funny how you got to know little things about a person like that. He could run on full steam for just so long, then very quickly would fold up into himself and go quiet. He was like that now, staring out the window of Franks' dark sedan, lost in thought or memory.

Her cell phone rang. It was Anita Minor.

"Yes, Mrs. Minor. Yes, the investigation is going well… Mr. Jane? Well..."

Jane grimaced, shook his head pleadingly, pressed himself into the car door as though he would willingly open it and throw himself out into the streets. She grinned. "He's not available at the moment… Oh? You do? They did? Yes, yes, I'll tell him. Thank you, Mrs. Minor. Good night."

She looked over at him. "Mrs. Minor says your tarot cards place you in grave danger tonight."

"Danger from dead bodies in dumpsters, or crazy tarot-card-reading mothers?"

"She didn't say. How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"How did you know there was another dead body in that dumpster?"

"Oh, I didn't." He waved his sticky fingers in the air. "That was a fluke. But I did know that Renko and John Doe were likely killed in the same place, and that it was likely some alley close to the club. Believe me," he turned and looked at her, his brows raised, a lop-sided smile on his face, "I wouldn't have jumped into that dumpster if I thought there was a body in there."

"You're sure about that, now?" she chided.

"Oh, quite sure."

"How did you know it was that alley?"

"You're sounding like Franks, now."

"Sorry. It's just that you seem to be light-years ahead of us on this one." She looked at him again, her trademark grin tugging into her right cheek. "So? Fess up, smartypants."

"Rats."

"What?"

"Rats. There were rats in the alley, doing rather un-rat-like things to the ground."

She raised one hand off the steering wheel. "Okay, okay, I think I've heard enough. You would willingly jump into a dumpster full of rats, blood and other people's three week old garbage, but just not a decomposing body. Got it."

He squared his shoulders and looked back out the window, grinning. "I have my standards."

And she pulled the sedan into the parking garage of _the Fairmont Hotel._

________________________________

The concierge glared at them as they crossed the elaborate gold and cream lobby, and several guests quickly vacated the elevator once Jane entered. He grinned at Lisbon as if suddenly discovering a new weapon to provoke people, and she found it didn't take much to read his mind right now.

"Don't even think about it," she growled. "Ever. Ever again."

They got off on the supposedly haunted seventh floor, and paused at the doors to their adjoining rooms.

She looked at him again.

"You did good tonight, Jane. Good work."

He smiled and this time, it came from his eyes. "Thanks."

"You forgot your fortune." She pulled out the tiny rolled up scrap of paper that she had snagged from the precinct table, and held it out, teasing.

"Bah. Those are as accurate as a bi-polar astrologer on Ecstasy."

"I know. But still."

He took it from her, held it for a long moment, remembering what it had said. _'Peace and happiness elude you, but do not lose heart.' _He slipped it into his pocket.

"What did yours say?"

She pulled an unopened cookie, still in its baggie, from her jacket pocket, waggled it in the air. "Get a shower, we'll break into the mini-bar, and find out. We're in _the Fairmont Hotel,_ for Pete's sake. Mrs. Minor would be upset if we didn't channel some 'spirits'."

"You're on."

And they slid their key cards and disappeared into their rooms.

_______________________________________

Jane paused and leaned against the inside of the door, realizing that he suddenly felt very weary. Drinks with Lisbon sounded great. He could always tell when she was trying to cheer him up, but he really just wanted to crawl into that great soft bed and sleep for days. Wouldn't happen, he knew. The nightmares would wake him every time, but at least the idea of sleep sounded good. Drinks would be better. He could drink himself to sleep. Lots and lots of those little bottles. Yes, that would work. As long as he didn't pass out on Lisbon's floor, he'd be fine.

He reached over and flicked on the light.

Nothing happened.

He toggled the switch up, down, up, down. Nothing.

Hm.

Burnt out, most likely. Just hadn't noticed it when he had left late this morning. He pulled of his filthy jacket, dropped it on the floor and took several steps into the room. At least the room smelled good. He had left the sliding balcony door open a bit when he had left this morning, and the faint salty tang of the ocean floated in on the breeze. He unbuttoned the vest, tossed that to the floor as well, and reached for the lamp by the bed.

There was a blur of movement, the force of a body rushing forward, a blood red face and a flash of fang.

____________________________________

As she stepped into the elaborate, beautifully-appointed room, Teresa Lisbon suddenly felt very weary. She had almost forgotten that they had come to San Francisco hot on the heels of their last case, they hadn't even had a full 8 hours sleep in almost a week, and she was beginning to feel it. She shook her head. Had she really just invited Jane to 'slip into something more comfortable', and join her for drinks in her hotel room? What was she thinking?

There was a thump from the wall adjoining the rooms.

She shook her head, and kicked off her shoes.

Another thump, then a clatter, sounding like a bedside lamp hitting the floor. She turned to their mutual door.

"Jane?"

Another thump.

She banged on the door. "Jane, what's going on?"

Strange sounds, and she unbolted her side of the door. His side, naturally, was already unbolted. She pushed it open and stepped into the dark room, and was immediately greeted by the sight of two men locked in a struggle against the far wall. She pulled out her Gloch 9mm.

"Freeze!"

The larger man spun around and roared at her and despite all her years of training and the fact that she had a formidable weapon in her hands, she instinctively jumped back, terrified.

He was all dressed in black, hair slicked back off a face painted blood red, eyes shining through black sockets, and teeth chiseled to dagger-like points. He swiped at her with long black nails, and then turned to the window and lunged toward it, not stopping at the balcony, but leaping right up and over the railing to disappear over the side and into the night.

It took her several seconds to regain some form of composure. It was only when Jane moved against the far wall that she realized what had happened. She holstered her piece and dashed to his side.

"Ow," he groaned, hand at his throat, doubled over in pain. "Owowowowow."

"Are you okay? What happened?"

"He bit me. Ow, damn that hurts. Ow."

"He bit you? Here, let's see…"

He straightened up a bit, tried to tilt his head, allowed her to move his hand away, but there was blood all over his fingers, his throat, his white shirt.

"Ow," she said with a frown.

"Yes, ow. It really hurts. Damn."

She pulled out her cell phone, dialed 911, informed them of her CBI status and requested paramedics ASAP for a 'downed officer', as she put it. She darted into the bathroom, cursing the lack of lights in the room, soaked a towel in cold water and brought it back for him to hold against his neck.

"Ow…" He looked up at her. "Did he just…?"

"Jump off the balcony? Yeah, I think he did…"

Together, they shuffled over to the sliding door, Jane groaning all the way, but they both went silent as they stepped out onto the balcony and peered over the railing.

"Do you see anything?" she asked, squinting.

"No. Ow."

"Ropes? Cables? Safety net?"

They both looked down, trying to see any sign of climbing or rappelling gear.

"No. Ow."

She looked at him. "Well, he didn't fly, that's for sure."

Jane said nothing.

"He didn't turn into a bat and fly away. He's not a vampire."

Still nothing.

"So don't even think about it."

"Ow."

They stood on the balcony, watching the night sky for bats and waiting for the paramedics to arrive.

____________________________________

Cho stood with hands on hips as the body was hauled out of the dumpster and into a black vinyl bag. The forensics team was already fast at work removing and cataloguing every single piece of garbage from the bin and he shook his head, not envying anyone that job.

Rigsby stood next to him, hands in his pockets, jacket collar up against the chill in the air. He was chewing the last of the fortune cookies. "Bet they wouldn't show that on TV, now, would they. Fancy pants actors going through a big disgusting tub of garbage like that. Not very glamorous, is it?"

"I'd rather get bit by a vampire."

Rigsby grinned. "That's gotta hurt, wouldn't you think? Did you see the teeth on these people? I mean, I got bit by my little sister once. Broke the skin. Needed tons of shots." He looked at Cho. "The human mouth is quite disgusting."

"Yup."

"But I guess, if you die, then you don't have to worry about the shots, do you?"

"Nope."

Cho's cell phone rang.

"Hey Boss. Yup. What? He what? No kidding? Okay."

He folded the phone away, put his hands in his pockets and went back to watching the forensics team pick apart the garbage.

Rigsby raised his brows. "Z'up?"

"Jane just got bit by a vampire."

"Oh." Rigsby went back to watching the forensics team pick apart the garbage.

After a few moments, the big man slid his eyes to his partner. "You're serious."

"Yup. They're taking him to the hospital right now."

"You, you're not messing with me, man…"

"Nope."

"'Cause that'd be mean."

"I'm not messing with you."

"I thought if you got bit by a vampire, you turned into a vampire."

Now Cho slid his eyes over to his partner. "They're not _real_ vampires."

"Oh, yeah. Right….You are _so _messing with me."

"I'm not messing with you. After they finish at the hospital, they're coming back to check out the club again."

Rigsby grinned. "Now I know you're messing with me."

"Nope."

"Five bucks says you're messing with me."

"You're on."

Rigsby frowned, went back to watching the forensics team pick apart the garbage, and wondered if it was at all possible for Patrick Jane to have been bitten by a vampire and if he was going to lose yet another 5 bucks in the process.

_**End of Chapter 6**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Blood Red Moon **

_**Chapter 7**_

"Ow."

Lisbon ground her teeth together as she pulled the dark sedan to the curb in front of _Dark._ He was not good with hospitals, she told herself over and over. He was not good with doctors, he was not even particularly good with needles, and she had lost count of the number of injections he had received. One for tetanus, another two or three were antibiotics, and at least one was a major painkiller. He had been miserable the entire time, and she pitied the young med students he had harried, harassed, badgered and belittled. She knew these things about him, wasn't surprised by his nasty treatment of good people who only wanted to help, but now, as she drove him to the club instead of the hotel, she - the new recipient of his misery - realized that she wanted to kill him herself.

She jumped out of the car and ducked around the front to where Van Pelt, Rigsby, Cho and Franks were waiting. It was well after 2:00am, and very dark, and they huddled and shivered in their Sacramento gear, all except Franks, a 'Frisco native, in his Cold Mountain fleece and nylon jacket.

"Is he okay?" asked Van Pelt, brows drawn in, worried.

"Remember when he went blind?" Lisbon scowled, yanking open the passenger side door. "Worse."

To Franks' astonishment, they all completely understood.

Patrick Jane was wrapped in a blanket.

In fact, as Lisbon, none too gently, helped him out of the car he looked every bit as miserable as he undoubtedly felt. His face was pale, his shirt bloodied, hair disheveled and one side of his throat was bruised and bandaged with a large tegaderm dressing. And his customary waist-coat and jacket were gone, exchanged for a thermal blanket, tugged around his shoulders for warmth.

"How you feeling, man?" asked Cho, tapping Jane's arm.

"Terrible."

"Why you wearing a blanket?" Rigsby this time, and Lisbon growled at him.

Jane just turned and aimed mournful eyes at her. She flung her arms in the air.

"Because I forgot them, alright?!"

"I did ask. Repeatedly."

She slammed the car door -- "Yes, you did. You wanted a _clean_ set of clothes, and they were hanging up in the closet..." -- she stomped over to the metal door of the club -- "I guess I was too _concerned_ that you might _die _on the way to the hospital, that I forgot them in the hotel room.... " -- she yanked it open with a huff -- "Forgive me that my _concern_ for your _life _got in the way of your fashion sensibilities…"and she finished her rant under her breath. It ended with something like 'bloody shirt and damn ugly shoes.'

The team exchanged glances, wondering if their boss was finally losing it.

Jane snugged the blanket tighter. "May we go in now? I have work to do."

"Then we can go back to the hotel and get some sleep?"

"Oh, I do hope so."

"Fine. Go. Scram. I've got your back. Oh boy, do I ever." And she did, following him in and making stabbing motions behind him as he walked.

Franks glanced at the rest of the team. "They sleeping together?"

"Not yet," said Cho.

"Ah. Makes perfect sense now," said Franks, and the team followed the others into the _Dark.  
_

__________________________________

It was 2:45am and there were still people in the club. In fact, other than the gothic way in which the patrons were dressed, the main floor of _Dark _could have been any very late-night club, loud pounding music, flashing lights, drinking, dancing. They even had a bouncer, a large black-clad bearded man with tattoos on every exposed inch of skin, and he stepped over as the CBI team entered the place. Lisbon flashed her badge and they were in.

Jane stood near one wall, his blue eyes scanning the crowd. Lisbon had no idea what they were here for. She for one figured that the drugs would be catching up with him soon, and had no desire to be dragging a sedated and miserable Patrick Jane around the city. He moved over to the bar, she assumed to get a better look, but he leaned against its smooth surface and ordered a Scotch, neat.

She glowered back at the rest of the team, her fingers curling into fists, and strode over to the bar.

"What are you doing?"

"Can you pay for that? My wallet is in my jacket, and my jacket is in my hotel room, where you left it."

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out one of the prescription bottles, dropped two pills into his hand and popped them in his mouth. The Scotch was merely to wash it down. He gagged at the attempt to swallow.

"Ow."

"Those are percocets."

"Yes, I know."

"You can't take them with alcohol. Besides, you just had two an hour ago."

"They're not working." He turned and leaned his back against the bar, finally removing the blanket and folding it neatly across his arm. "He's not here."

"Who? The guy who attacked you?"

"It was worth a shot." He rolled his eyes to look at her. "One last place?"

"Upstairs?"

"_After Dark."_

"One last place. Then I'm getting you into bed."

"Promise?"

She couldn't help but smile, and whacked him on the arm. He pulled himself off the stability of the bar and trudged to the spiral staircase, and the _After Dark_ lounge.

There were fewer people in the lounge than in the club, but then again, it was a much more intimate atmosphere. Candles were the method of illumination, and the only sound was the faint thumping of music from down below, and murmuring. There were about 8 people in total, an equal mix of men and women, some standing in close quarters, some sprawled on the couches, others simply sitting alone with various drinks. No one seemed particularly upset that one of their own had died here only last night.

Again, Jane stood at the wall, scanning the room, as the rest of the team clanged up the stair behind him. He passed his blanket to Lisbon, who protested but took it, nonetheless. Then, he moved to the center of the room, turned toward the windows, held up his palms, and turned right, began to walk over to the far wall when Kiara Arabia, aka Helen Cava, met him there.

Like an old friend, or ex-lover, she grabbed one of his hands in one of hers, laid the other on the side of his face.

"Oh, my dear man. What has happened to you?"

"Oh, that." Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from the wall. "Your boyfriend. My, what big teeth he has."

She blinked. "My, my boyfriend? I don't have a boyfriend…"

"Right. You have many, yeh?"

He reached down now and caught both of her hands in his and took a step back, holding her arms out in front of her. He began to move her, first one way, then the other, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on hers, daring her to look away.

"Yes. I reject the convention that says a woman must settle down or she is done for. That is just so –"

"Victorian?"

It was like a dance. One arm up, the other one down, turn to the right, now other arm up, first one down, turn to the left. This had attracted the attention of the entire lounge, now, as all eyes were on them. Danae Harkness was standing very still, arms wrapped around her ribs, taut as a strung bow.

"I was about to say conventional. What are we doing?"

"Magic. Look me in the eyes and tell me who killed Dan Renko."

"I – I don't know who killed Dan Renko. I swear."

Closer to the far wall, her arms held out like a witching wand. "We found another body tonight, in a dumpster five blocks from here."

"I don't know anything about that. Please believe me."

"Oh, I do. You didn't kill those men. You would have enjoyed it far too much. No, I just want to see if you knew who did…" She had not looked away for one second, her deep chocolate eyes locked in his sparkling blue ones the entire time.

"Aaand… you don't." He released her, turned to the young blonde, held out his hands. "Ms. Harkness?"

"If you touch me, I'll press charges."

"You're right," he grinned, swinging back to Arabia. "No competition. Would you be able to go over that membership list? Tell Agents Cho or Rigsby which of the men you had 'dabbled' with? They'll be discreet, I assure you."

She glanced over at them, standing by the spiral stair. "Oh, certainly…"

"Now. Please. Cho, take her with you. And Rigsby, you go too. Both of you go now. Right now. Quickly. Chop chop. Scram shoo."

He turned again to the wall, hands clasped behind his back.

The agents looked at Lisbon. She furrowed her brow, but knew enough to give him his rope. She nodded and the three of them filed down the spiral staircase, footsteps clanging as they went.

Lisbon crossed the floor to stand beside Jane, leaned into him. "This is looking very bizarre."

"Mm-hm." He kept studying the wall, it's ornate designs, patterns, etchings and symbols. "But then again, this is a bizarre case, isn't it…? My, this is a beautiful wall, don't you agree?"

She pursed her lips, waiting for him to elaborate. Naturally, he didn't. She sighed. "What is so beautiful about this wall, pray tell?"

"Well, for one thing, it's the wall shared by the second floor of the Goth Museum… _Aha!"_

He turned and flashed her a brilliant smile, then stepped forward and poked a finger into the painting of an eyeball. The finger went in and kept on going. It was a hole, drilled right through the wall.

There was a thumping sound from the other side, a thumping and crashing and the pounding of heavy footsteps receding into the distance. Jane sprang away from the wall and over to the window, jumped on the back of one of the couches and peered out, waiting. He counted out loud to ten. Then, there was a woman's scream, another crash, the sound of men's voices shouting, and Jane let out a cheer.

"Way to go! Rigsby takes him down in one! Ooh, watch out, he bites. Oh, oh-oh…"

Lisbon couldn't resist, and bounded onto the back of the couch to perch next to him. She had to crane her neck to see out the windows. She gasped.

"Is that him?"

"Unless there are other red-faced, black-clad, fanged suspects out there. Oh ah…" He hissed sharply, made a face.

Cho and Rigsby were struggling to keep the man down, but he was unstoppable. Cho was sent reeling backwards into the sedan, and Rigsby took several savage blows to the head and abdomen before he dropped to his knees. And then the man was gone, racing across the street, and leaping headlong onto the brick wall. He began to scale it like a spider, swinging himself onto the roof and disappearing into the night.

Jane and Lisbon exchanged looks.

"He's not a vampire, Jane."

"Uh huh."

"There's no such thing as vampires."

"Uh huh."

Gingerly he climbed down from the couch, found his legs a little unsteady, so he sank into one of the beanbags and sighed, rubbing his throat slightly over the bandage. Lisbon sprang down to stand next to him. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at Franks.

"Put out an APB on…" she glanced at Jane.

"Elianna Spider's brother, Jeffrey Bukovy. He runs the Goth Museum with her."

"Alright, him. Actually, bring them both in for questioning."

"If you can find him."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, that's right. Search every coffin in San Francisco. Bring stakes and Holy Water. Just in case."

Franks chuckled, nervously.

It was Jane's turn to sigh. "Okay, that's enough work for one day. I'm very tired and just a little woozy. Percocets. Gotta luv 'em. Oh, one more thing. Van Pelt, can you do me a favour?"

"Sure," she offered.

"Go round the bar there to that little fridge and take one of the baggies to the lab. I think it belongs to Natasha Minor. She was O negative, yeh?"

Franks nodded, absolutely dumbfounded. "Yeah, she was." He resisted the urge to ask "how did you know." He was a smart man. Patrick Jane just had a steep learning curve.

Lisbon shook her head, slipped an arm under him and helped him to his feet. He grabbed his blanket back from her, wrapped it over his shoulders and padded to the stairs. He paused to throw one last look back at Danae Harkness.

Her glare could turn men to stone.

He rubbed a hand along his throat one more time and disappeared down the steps.

__________________________________________

_The Fairmont Hotel_ was a first class joint. Not only did it earn every one of its 5 stars in terms of elegance and appointment, but also in terms of customer service. Patrick Jane's personal belongings had been transferred, every one of them, to the VIP suite at the top of the hotel. They had not claimed any responsibility for the assault in his room -- of course, all guests should know better than to leave any windows or doors open and accessible to the public like that. However, the rooms had been booked under the office of the Deputy Mayor. It would not look good to have such guests disgruntled, no matter how irresponsible the guest.

Jane and Lisbon surveyed the room from the elaborate double doors. There was a spacious living area, a formal dining table, floor to ceiling windows and two master bedrooms, both with ensuites and private balconies. It was a marvel, cream carpets and coffee-coloured walls, green settees, gold-framed landscapes, dark wood furniture and fresh flowers everywhere. It reminded Lisbon of a movie set, something only the rich and famous played in. It had to cost thousands of dollars a night.

"Wow, this is incredible." She grinned at him. "You always land on your feet, don't you?"

"Not always."

She studied him, standing in the doorway, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't look like he wanted to go in.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, oh nothing. Just being silly."

"Come on, Jane, look at this." She strolled into the living area, which was twice the size of their rooms on the seventh floor. "It's like a palace. These flowers cost more than what I make in a week."

"Yes, they're beautiful."

She paused and looked at him again, brow furrowing. "Do you want me to check out the rooms? Is that it? Make sure there's no one here?"

"Nah." He made a face. "Maybe."

She pouted. Sometimes he reminded her of a little boy.

"It's okay," she nodded. "I'll check out the rooms. Then you can go to sleep and have a cup of tea in the morning. Sound good?"

He nodded.

To make him feel better, she pulled her weapon and went from room to room, checking under the massive beds, inside the walk-in closets, behind the elegant draperies, all the while marveling at the psychological effects of trauma. It was so easy to dismiss things like this, never taking into account the delicate balance of reason and imagination that exist in every soul, and how easily that balance could be upset. Jane had survived his share of trauma. He was allowed some quirks.

"All clear," she stated, returning to the doorway and holstering her Glock. He hadn't budged from where he had been standing. "Don't forget to take your antibiotics. Are you sure you're gonna be okay?"

"Do vampires need permission to enter a room?"

"You're not turning into a vampire, Jane."

"I know. Do you smell garlic?"

She shook her head. "Good night, Jane."

"Good night, Lisbon."

And she closed the door behind her.

_**End of Chapter 7**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 8**_

"_Freeze!" she shouted, and fired once, twice, three times, but the creature kept coming. It had horns and a red face and teeth like a bear, and she dropped her weapon and tried to run, but she just couldn't, she was frozen, her body paralyzed as the creature came closer and closer and closer and she screamed but it sounded light and musical, like a cell phone ringing…_

She opened her eyes.

Her cell phone was ringing.

"Damn," she sputtered, cursing the nightmare that had her heart pounding in her throat. She had left the phone on the bedside table, so she snatched it to her ear, not bothering to sit up or turn on a light.

"Yeah? Okay, okay, we'll be right down."

She dropped it into her lap and sat up, pushing her hands into her hair and releasing a long cleansing breath. She looked over at the clock. 7:18am. She had just had 3 ½ hours sleep. Worse than nothing at all. She grabbed the phone and called Cho. He picked up on the third ring.

"Wakey wakey, sunshine. Franks just called. They got Jeffrey Bukovy at the Eddy St. Stationhouse. He wants us to meet them there ASAP. Call Rigsby and Van Pelt. I'll call Jane. Meet you down in 20." And she hung up and called Patrick Jane.

There was no answer.

She tried again, with the same result. She shook her head, convinced that if the San Francisco vampires didn't kill him, she most definitely would.

________________________________________

Twenty minutes later, they stood at the large double doors of the VIP suite. None of them had showered, just pulled on a change of clothes, and the women both had their hair back in ponytails. Professional and efficient law enforcement officials always looked pulled together.

Lisbon banged on the door a third time, honestly ready to pull her Glock and shoot out the lock. She would make him pay the hotel for that one, that's for sure, and out of his own pocket. No more VIP treatment here. But finally, there was the sound of locks unbolting, and the door opened and Jane peered out, dressed in baby blue pajamas.

She bit her lip, frustration melting at the sight of him, bare footed, hair disheveled, obviously roused from a very sound, likely drug-induced sleep, and for the second time that night, he looked like a little boy. All he needed was a teddy bear.

"Didn't you hear your cell phone?" she snapped, trying to sound angry.

He looked around sheepishly. "I can't find it. I think it was in my jacket pocket, but I think they took it to the drycleaners with my vest. Unless they put it all in the trash. I wouldn't blame them. It was vile. I don't know where anything is."

She pursed her lips, still fighting the smile. "Okay. Find something and get dressed. Franks has the Spiders in custody. We need to get down there now."

"Fair enough." He stepped away from the door, left it open for them all to enter as he padded into one of the master suites and closed the door. Lisbon allowed the smile to spread however as she watched her team stroll into the gracious living area, taking it all in. They had seen more than their share of rooms in their careers, as being state agents had taken them from one end of California to the other, from governor's mansions to beachside trailers, from desert shacks to Tahoe timberframes to LA condos. They had seen it all.

But as they grinned and flopped into the comfy furniture, pretending to make themselves at home, she realized they didn't live like most people lived. They didn't live for possessions, for homes or cars or the like, and she wondered if that was part of the nature of the job. Your unit was your home, your team-members your family. All of this was just gravy.

She studied Rigsby, his face bruised from the beating Bukovy had laid upon him. Van Pelt was fussing over him, and he was eating it up. Cho was sore too, but he was an ex-Marine. Stoic was his middle name. She was proud of them. She had never worked with better.

Five minutes later, Jane reappeared, showered but unshaven, a clean dark suit with a new waistcoat, one she had never seen before. It seemed to have unusual silver buttons. Rigsby brightened when he saw it.

"Hey," he laughed. "That's from the Goth Museum!"

"We'll play 'Good Cop, Goth Cop.'" Jane grinned, no trace of fatigue in his countenance at all. "Shall we call room service? _The Fairmont's_ breakfast menu looks particularly enticing. They use the proper Béarnaise sauce for their Eggs Benedict, not the poor man's Hollandaise." He leaned in, wrinkling his nose as if sharing a secret. "It's the tarragon."

Mouths watering, Cho, Van Pelt and Rigsby turned mournful eyes to their boss, but she shook her head. "Coffee and donuts on the way, folks. Let's go."

Jane shrugged at the denial and they pulled themselves out of the comfy chairs, and filed out the double doors of the VIP suite and into the San Francisco morning mist.

________________________________________

Franks met them in their little corner of the station. He was just beginning to look as ragged as they did, with dark circles creeping up under his eyes, and the nervous twitch of a man drinking too much coffee. He talked as they walked toward one of the many interrogation rooms.

"Uniforms nabbed them both as they were getting ready to leave their apartment. Man, I don't know how that guy made it out alive. There were 5 cops ready to take him, and he still sent two of them to the hospital."

Lisbon hmphed. "Why five cops?"

Franks snorted. "Are you kidding? The guy had already assaulted a state agent –"

"Consultant," corrected Jane.

"— and had taken on and taken out two others…"

Cho and Rigsby exchanged looks that said 'we could've taken him if we wanted to,' but remained silent.

"…so you bet we were going in prepared. His sister Nancy is here too. She admits she was helping him leave the city, but that's as far as she willing to go."

"My people will convince her otherwise. Cho, Rigsby, Van Pelt, you're on it." They peeled away, and she looked at Franks. "Did you get a sample of her DNA?"

"Yep, but no match. She's not Natasha Minor's killer. We haven't been able to get a sample from Jeffrey yet."

"Oh?" Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Why not?"

Franks shook his head. "You've got to see it to believe it…"

And a buzzer sounded to allow them entrance into the high security ward of the Tenderloin Special Unit/Task Force Station.

______________________________________________

Jeffrey Bukovy, aka Morkaleb Spider, was chained to a desk, with two uniformed guards standing over each shoulder, hands cuffed behind his back. Even watching from behind the one-way mirrored glass, he was a fearsome site. As tall as Rigsby, though not as broad, his face and neck were painted the deepest shade of blood red, which was rubbing off in parts from a night rife with physical mayhem. His eye sockets were painted black and also rubbing off in places, and Lisbon was grateful for the glimpses of pale skin, reminding them all that this was merely a man disguising his humanity, monster though he may be.

His black T-shirt was torn, likely from the scuffle with police, and it revealed a lean hard muscled torso – martial arts training, most likely, to have been able to do the remarkable things he had been seen doing. And his hair was long, black and tied back in a disheveled cue, like an Edwardian gentleman. But it was his teeth that were the most disturbing.

Each and every tooth had been filed into points, so that his mouth resembled that of a shark. His lips and tongue were jagged from being torn by them, whether just from day to day life or his recent 'erratic' lifestyle, it was difficult to tell. A Forensics officer was standing in one corner, waiting for his moment to take a salivary swab, but honestly, with a mouth like that, Lisbon couldn't blame him for hesitating.

A shudder went up her spine, and she suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. She had not been particularly sympathetic to Jane's plight all night, had been irritated with his petulant attitude and frustrated with his childish behaviour. But the sight of that man and those teeth changed everything, and she vowed to give her colleague far more credit in the future.

She stole a glance at him, and saw him rubbing his throat absentmindedly, lost in thought. Or memory. She shuddered again.

"Anyone comes near, he goes ballistic. We can't get a sample unless we sedate him, but we can't do that without a judge's okay, and we haven't got that yet."

"Any lawyer?"

"Apparently his sister has called one, but no one has shown up yet."

"I'll get him to talk," said Jane.

Both Lisbon and Franks turned to him.

"Well…" said Franks.

"No," said Lisbon. "Absolutely not. No way. Don't even think about it."

Jane turned to her, face perfectly calm, pleasant in fact.

"Why not?"

"Because, because…" she stamped her foot. "Just because. It's too dangerous."

Jane's brows rose and he swung his hands to the glass. "He's chained like a dog, Lisbon. He can't hurt me. Besides, he tried to kill me once and he failed. That gives me the psychological edge. I can use that."

He glanced at Franks, who nodded in agreement, then back to Lisbon, who folded her arms across her chest.

"Did you just hear yourself, Jane? He tried to kill you once."

"And failed."

"The optimal word is once. That implies 'twice', 'thrice', and so on."

"Well, I can't fault your logic there. That's actually quite impressive. Well done, Lisbon."

She found herself smiling, then fought her way out of it. _Damn him, anyway. _He was manipulating her. She sighed.

"No hypnosis, okay? It's illegal. We can't lose this guy on a technicality."

He frowned, thought some more, then nodded. "Agreed. No hypnosis."

"Alright," she said unenthusiastically. "But don't get too close, promise?"

He flashed her a brilliant smile. "Promise." And was out of the mirrored anteroom in a heartbeat, and into the interrogation room.

Franks stared at her. "Hypnosis?"

"Don't ask," she grumbled as she turned toward the mirror to watch the interview with a vampire.

_________________________________________________

The black-rimmed eyes never left him for a second, and even as the chained man started to rise, the guards placed hands on his shoulders to push him back down into the creaky metal chair. For once, Patrick Jane found himself very grateful for big tough guys who were more brawn than brain. It would be very difficult to maintain his composure without those two in the room.

"Hello," he said. "I'm Patrick Jane. We've met before."

Morkaleb Spider snarled.

"Love the dental work. That had to cost you a fortune. Unless, say -- did you do it yourself?"

Jane strolled around the table, until he was less than three feet away. The guards made silent "no-go" gestures with their wooden faces, so he stopped and leaned in from there.

"You did, didn't you? That is amazing. Commendable, even. You must have a very high pain threshold. Impressive. Do you mind if I sit down? I've had a really long day. You bit me good and it still hurts. So I can sit? Thanks. Don't mind if I do."

And he pulled up a metal chair, not three feet away from the menacing figure still glaring at him. Jane didn't seem threatened in the least. In fact, to Lisbon, it seemed as if he were speaking with a run-of-the-mill suspect, with no history of brutal assault to speak of. He seemed perfectly normal.

"Jeffrey, can I call you Jeffrey? That's such a pleasant name, much more soothing than 'Morkaleb,' don't you agree? It means 'God's peace', doesn't it? But then again," he laughed softly. "It doesn't really apply, does it? Morkaleb is much more fitting."

The man said nothing.

"So, this is all about Kiara, isn't it?" he asked, folding his hands on the table, looking straight into the dark eyes of the other man. "You love her. Have for a long time. It's just fate, the way things work. You being right next door in the museum, her running the club day and night, never connecting, but always connected, yeh?"

There was no snarling now, just seething, staring. But the man was rapt in his attention. It was unnerving.

"She is a remarkable woman, yes, that's true. In fact, I don't think I've met her equal. She's intelligent, passionate, beautiful, cultured. All in one tight little package. Yep, you've picked yourself a winner."

The lips pulled back off the teeth, and for the first time in hours, Jeffrey Bukovy aka Morkaleb Spider, spoke.

"You have no right."

Jane nodded, flicked his thumbs in agreement. "Oh no, I can't argue with you there. She's sweet, but I haven't put in the time, have I? No time to get to know her, to truly appreciate her, her style, her business sense, her…appetites. No no, I'm just a newbie, flown in from Sacramento. What do I know?"

He smiled at the man, almost laughed at himself, but to Lisbon's surprise, the red-painted figure nodded.

"Nothing. You know nothing about her."

"You're absolutely right. I know nothing about her, except for the fact that she's beautiful. And available. Is that all that Dan Renko saw? Opportunity?"

The dark eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

"How did that make you feel, Jeffrey? That man, those men, with her, touching her, tasting her, while you had to watch and wait, watch and wait." Jane slammed a fist on the table. The guards jumped, but not Bukovy. He was with Jane all the way. "Wait, and abide your time until the perfect moment. But those 'other men'," Jane shook his head, "they were always getting in the way. Throwing off your timing, ruining your plans, stealing the moment. Am I right, Morkaleb? Tell me that I am."

Bukovy was breathing heavily now, eyes still fixed on Jane. The consultant was speaking his language. In fact, it seemed to Lisbon that Jane was actually channeling the man – she had seen him do it before, get so inside a suspect's head that it was impossible to distinguish theory from reality. Uncanny how he did it so easily.

But still, Bukovy did not speak.

Jane leaned forward. "And me, there I am for no more than ten minutes and she's kissing me. Go figure." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a thumb along his lip. "She's a good kisser, really, quite good, all things considered…"

Lisbon blinked. _Kissing?_ That was the first she'd heard about it. She steeled her jaw, furious that Franks was looking at her, questioning, and she had no answers.

"Have you told her how you feel, Jeffrey? You haven't, have you? You're still waiting, still working in your sister's shop, watching Kiara Arabia go through men like a Porsche goes through red lights. Shame, isn't it? Why do you wait?"

The man swallowed, for the first time looked away.

"I know why you're waiting, Jeffrey. I know exactly how you feel…"

Silence.

"You're tender, aren't you, Jeffrey? How many people can see that in you, your tenderness, your compassion? You were protecting her, weren't you, from those who would take advantage of her innocent passion. In fact," Jane swiveled in his chair, pointed a hand at the one-way glass, "She's in there right now, waiting for you to say it, to tell her how you feel, how strongly you feel, how far you would go to defend her…"

Lisbon rocked back on her heels at the lie. Technically, it wasn't illegal to lie to a suspect the way Jane was lying now, but 'leading' a suspect was another story, similar to putting words in someone's mouth. It could nullify any confession they might get. Jane was in danger of doing that right now.

He sat back in his chair. "You know we're being recorded right now, don't you? I mean, they've told you all that already. You know you've got a lawyer on the way too, but hell, who cares? You did what you did for love. She needs to know that before you swing, don't you think?"

Franks cleared his throat. She rolled her eyes, stepped forward and rapped the glass as a warning.

Jane held out a hand. "See? I told you. Who cares who knows anymore? Take it like a man. You killed Dan Renko, didn't you?"

"Stop him," said Franks.

She pressed the intercom button. "Jane, that's enough."

"And the others. One in a dumpster, one in the bay. How many others have you hung out to dry?"

"Jane…"

Jane glanced over at the mirror. "Sorry, Ms. Arabia. I thought he was the one. I guess I was wrong."

"Eight!" snapped the painted man in a voice so melodramatic that even the guards flinched. "I killed eight of them. You would have been nine."

Jane made a face. "Eight? Wow."

"I didn't know their names. I never cared to know. I saw what they did, I followed them and I killed them and it was sweet. They knew, before they died, though, they knew…"

Jane leaned forward, nodding, blue eyes locked on dark. "They knew it was you, didn't they? That you were the one."

"Yes!" The man lurched forward as well, and Jane winced in his chair but did not move away. They were inches apart. Saliva hung from his mouth in strings. "Yes, they knew I was hers, and she was mine. She belongs to me. Their lives were forfeit, their blood free for the taking. A love gift for Kiara, forever. Mine and hers together."

"Better than sex," mused Jane.

"Longer lasting, eternally profound, forever uniting."

Jane cocked his head, thinking.

"You're right…"

The guards forced Bukovy back in his chair, but his eyes never left the consultant.

"You're absolutely right, Jeffrey. The gift of blood is a powerful thing." To everyone's surprise, Jane flashed him a brilliant smile, and leaned in close to put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Thank you. You've been a great help."

The dark eyes remained steady. "You'll tell her?"

"I will."

Bukovy nodded, evidently satisfied.

"Thanks for everything, Jeffrey. Be well." Jane rose from his chair, but paused, fingers playing with the air. "Oh, one more question if I may? It's silly, I know. But you know what it's like when you get a song stuck in your head and it just won't stop and it begins to drive you crazy? Or you get this idea in your head, and well, you know what I'm talking about, right?"

Bukovy's gaze was confused but darkening, and Jane seemed oblivious.

"Um, so back to my silly question… I'm not going to turn into a vampire or anything, am I? I mean, you're not really a vampire at all, no matter what your delusions or beliefs. You're just a sick and mentally twisted sociopath living out a morose fantasy who happens to be in remarkable shape. I'm impressed, actually. You jumped off that balcony, you scaled that wall. Amazing, really. Completely amazing."

Bukovy snarled.

"Just so I know, you know? Because bad things happen all the time and I just want to be sure. I mean, you bite people just to kill people, nothing more artistic than that, right? Not that you're particularly artistic about it. In fact, you're rather crude really, no finesse or refinement or even pleasure, just blood and guts, hack and slash, like a clear-cut in Oregon –"

The guards had to restrain the man's lunge, and Jane ducked away from the raging figure and beat it to the door.

Franks turned to Lisbon.

"Now how the hell did he know that the Bukovys were from Oregon?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying desperately to chase away the bizarre images that seemed doomed to live forever etched in her memory. She was certain there would be a full moon out tonight and that it would be a blood red one at that.

_**End of Chapter 8**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 9**_

Deputy Mayor Vincent Minor was waiting for them in their makeshift office. He was standing in the centre of the room, dark suited and professional, drinking coffee with Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt, and he thrust out his hand when he saw them approach.

"Sr. Agent Lisbon, Det. Franks, I've just been enjoying my time with your fellow officers here. They are a fine bunch of people, I must say. Damn fine."

"California's best," said Lisbon, shaking the man's hand.

"They tell me you've found the man responsible for Dan Renko's murder."

Lisbon and Franks exchanged looks.

"It actually might be more like three to eight murders, sir," said Franks. "We just spoke with him –"

"Three to eight? That's a pretty wide margin, Detective."

"Yes sir. He may have been lying. However, we can be certain he is responsible for the deaths of two people, likely three. He is also responsible for attacking five officers of the law. We have him cold on those."

"One less maniac on the streets of San Francisco. We can charge the sister as well. Agent Cho says she has admitted to finding Dan Renko's student ID in her brother's room. Isn't that right, Agent Cho?"

Cho nodded to Lisbon. They hadn't had a chance to discuss each other's interviews. This was as good a time as any.

"She suspected he was 'doing something wrong'," Cho admitted, "But she claims she honestly didn't know people were dying. When she found Renko's ID, she asked her brother about it, and it was only then that she became suspicious."

"Do you believe her?"

Cho nodded again. "Yeah, I do. He's creepy, but he's her brother. She loves him."

Minor shook his head. "Nobody could keep a secret like that. Eight murders? She'd had to have noticed something. The police would certainly have noticed something. Even in a city this size, no one gets away with that, not any more."

"Bah. Easy as pie."

The Deputy Mayor glanced over to the wide doorway. Patrick Jane had not 'officially' entered the room, but instead was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. Lisbon grit her teeth. It wasn't hard to read him – he was itching to take on the father of a murdered girl. The fact that Minor was a politician was a bonus.

Minor squared himself on the floor. "You must be the psychic my wife's been waiting for."

"Must I?"

Lisbon stepped in. "Deputy Mayor Vincent Minor, Patrick Jane." And in her best maternal, authoritative voice, she added, "Jane, play nice."

The men shook, but it was anything but nice.

"So, Mr. Jane, you think it would be easy to kill eight people in San Francisco and get away with it?"

Jane shrugged. "Obviously."

"You're saying our police are incompetent."

"If the shoe fits. The Bukovys have been running the Goth Museum for five years now, isn't that correct Agent Rigsby?"

"Uh, yeah, that's right."

"And Det. Franks has openly admitted that you get one or two of these cases each year. That could easily be over 8 murders, couldn't it? That's well into 'serial killer' territory. And let's face it, Vince, there's only one reason that the CBI is here, and it's the fact that it is your daughter lying under a sheet, not someone else's."

"That's not true!"

"Sure it is. Even a clean cut all-American college kid like Dan Renko didn't make the grade. But your daughter did. That's just plain ugly, Vince. I'm galled."

Minor's steelworker face was beet red.

Jane stepped forward. "Tell me, Vince, who was it who crept into her room that night so long ago?"

"Jane!" Lisbon swung around but there was no stopping him.

"No, Vince. You know what? _Don't_ tell me. I don't want to know. I just want to know that he was punished. Tell me that he was punished, Vince."

The muscles in Minor's jaw were working overtime, his eyes like flint, fists clenching and unclenching. But he hadn't taken a swing yet, and Lisbon knew by now what that meant.

"How old was she, Vince? Ten? Twelve?"

"Jane!"

"I just want to know that he was punished, Lisbon. Can you tell me that, Vince? I don't even care if he was prosecuted. Tell me that he was punished."

"It wasn't me. I would never hurt her. She was my baby. I loved her…more than anything…"

"I don't care, Vince. Just tell me he was punished."

Minor looked like he was going to have a stroke, but finally, he lowered his eyes and released a deep breath.

"He was punished."

There was silence for a long time in the makeshift office.

Lisbon's cell phone rang. It was Anita Minor. Lisbon didn't answer and the ringing soon stopped.

Franks cleared his throat and grabbed the burgundy folio. "I'll have this list of _After Dark_ members cross-checked with Missing Persons for the last five years. We might be able to close some cold cases with this."

Lisbon sighed and stared at Jane. He _did_ close cases, closed them like a fiend, Minelli had once said. Apparently, even ones he wasn't investigating.

"May I see that, please?" And Jane opened the folio, scanned the list quickly and handed it back.

Minor cleared his throat again. "Do you know who killed my daughter?" His voice sounded small now, plaintive, a grieving daddy.

"No," said Franks.

"No," said Lisbon.

"Yes," said Jane, and he turned and walked out of the room.

___________________________________

She found him by the water cooler, filling a cone-shaped cup with the grey tab, signifying lukewarm water, not chilled. He had two small pills in his hand and he popped them and washed them down with the water. It still obviously hurt to swallow.

"The percocets?" she asked.

"Antibiotics," he answered. "I forgot to take them this morning."

She reached up and placed a hand on his forehead. "You're warm."

"I'm angry. He's a buffoon."

"Buffoons can have kids too, you know. They can even love them."

"Idiot. He doesn't deserve a kid."

"Still, you didn't need to do that. His daughter is dead. He's trying to cope."

"Been there. Done that."

"It's not his fault. Sometimes, Jane, it's not anyone's fault."

He glanced at her sharply, but said nothing.

She left it for a few moments, knowing it was a lose-lose situation. She decided to change the subject. "So what's this about you kissing Kiara Arabia?"

There it was, the hint of a grin. "Technically, she kissed me. She wanted to steal my energy."

"I'm sure she did."

"It was nothing. Ask Cho. Ask Rigsby. Yes, do, just to see them blush."

"So Bukovy was watching?"

Jane shrugged. "Had to have been. Why else would I have been a target? It made sense."

"And that's how you knew about the peek-hole in the wall."

"'_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Sherlock Holmes."

She pursed her lips, impressed.

"You said you know who killed Natasha. Do you?"

"Yes."

She pouted, waiting.

"Well?"

Finally, the smile started small in one corner, then gradually spread up to his eyes. He leaned into her. "Why should I tell you, when I can show you?"

Full smile now, wicked and playful, and she found it oddly reassuring. Serious, thoughtful, angry Jane was an unpredictable thing, and therefore, dangerous. Like this, she found him much more comfortable.

She smiled back. "Lead on, MacDuff."

His brows rose at the Shakespearian quote and he held a hand out to show her the way as they began to walk. "Did you know that's a misquote from the original? It's actually "Lay on, MacDuff," which I'm quite certain you wouldn't want to say in this day and age. You just might get yourself in trouble. And did you know MacDuff was a Caesarian section baby? Brutal by the standards of the day, but performed often enough for even a peasant audience to understand."

And he kept right on talking as she rolled her eyes and followed him down the hall and out of the station.

____________________________________

He had insisted on walking, as it was noon, and for the first time in days, the sun had appeared in San Francisco. There were pedestrians galore now, shoppers and tourists and sightseers and college students, and of course, the requisite hookers, pan handlers and winos that were part and parcel of the 'charm' of the Tenderloin. They walked not so briskly, enjoying the fine weather and the smell of the ocean as they neared the piers, elbows and shoulders brushing occasionally but making no excuses. She spied a tacky tourist shop across the street, allowed herself a small smile, and as if reading her mind, he immediately veered off in its direction and led her into the cramped storefront.

He spun around to look at her.

"What?" she frowned, brows furrowed.

His grin just grew bigger as he studied her, his eyes darting from her face to the wall, her face to the wall, quickly narrowing his search until he turned to a rack of souvenir button badges. There were all sorts, big, little, most with tiny Golden Gate Bridges on them. He snagged one that said _"I left my heart in San Francisco",_ emblazoned over a photo of Tony Bennett. The word _heart_ was naturally replaced with a little red heart. He paid two dollars for it and turned to pin it on her brown jacket.

"For your collection," he said, grinning. She knew better than to argue. She had collected over a hundred of the tacky souvenir button badges as a kid growing up, kept them still in a shoebox in her closet. They still made her smile. He patted his stomach with both hands. "I'm starving. Let's go eat us some crabs."

"Are you going to tell me who killed Natasha Minor?"

"Not on an empty stomach. Bureau can pick up the tab, yeh?"

Finally, she smiled. "Yeah. Bureau can pick up the tab."

And they left the souvenir shop and headed for the piers.

____________________________________

It turned out the piers were too far to walk, so they settled for a greasy diner that served fried crab cakes with potato chips and cole slaw. The coffee was old and smelled of ashes, but Jane insisted that it was all a part of the Tenderloin experience, and she had to admit the crab cakes were good. He even forsook his customary cup of tea for a mug of java, to further emphasize the point, and they sat and made comments on the secrets and habits of the people passing by the window on the street.

Finally, she leaned across the table. "So, are you going to tell me who killed Natasha Minor?"

"Patience, Lisbon, patience. May I borrow your cell phone?" She furrowed her brow but passed it over. "It's all in the timing. There's no art in rushing in like a bull in a china shop, now is there? Where's the style in that?"

He dialed and held it up to his ear. Someone picked up on the other end.

"The gift of blood is a powerful thing, isn't it?" He began in a soothing, cadenced voice. "The life is in the blood. The gift of blood is the gift of life. But it wasn't enough, was it? It will never be enough. You need to go all the way, complete the transaction. It may never be enough, but it will be beautiful and profound and eternal. You will know and I will know and that will be enough, won't it? I'll be your witness at the club in one hour."

And he hung up, downed the last dregs of his coffee, made a face, and dialed again.

Someone else picked up on the other end.

"You need to know that Jeffrey Bukovy has escaped from custody. He's likely coming for you. We need to take you into protective custody. I'll meet you at the club in one hour."

He folded up the phone and slid it across the table to her.

She shook her head, grinning. "Damn it, Jane…' She couldn't finish. She didn't know what to say.

He grinned. "Well, at least there's no costumes or props this time – Oh, wait!" He reached into his pocket, popped something into his mouth, and smiled at her.

He was wearing yellow plastic fangs.

She almost choked on her coffee, especially when the waitress came round with the bill, gave him a look that said, "it takes all kinds", and walked away shaking her head. Her cell phone rang again.

"Hello, Mrs. Minor…"

Jane made vampire faces at her, pretended to claw the air, waved at the passersby out the window.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Minor, he…can't talk right now…He's …undercover…"

Jane gave her a thumbs up.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll tell him. Good bye."

She folded the phone and slipped it in her pocket. "She says to tell you the cards say you'll be crossing paths with the dead, and to be careful."

"I'll ve garvul," Jane pushed the bill towards her. "Va bureau gan bay for vat."

"Yes, Jane. The bureau can pay for that."

And they left the table and headed back in the direction of _Dark._

_**End of Chapter 9**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 10**_

They made good time back to the club, little over half an hour. It was still sunny and warm and there were no cars outside the building. Jane didn't seem to notice, as he stood and stared at the outside of the building for a long time, hands on hips, frowning. He seemed to be looking for something, as his gaze continually swept up to the second and third stories, and suddenly, he turned and strode off toward the end of the block, where the club joined the abandoned distillery on the corner.

"Lisbon, come here!"

With a sigh, she followed, knowing that whatever he was thinking, it couldn't possibly be good or easy or legal.

"Look," he said, and gestured to a small 2x3 window about 7 feet above the pavement in the brick. The glass was broken and almost gone. He grinned at her.

"Is it Breaking and Entering if it's already broken?"

"Jane…"

And before she could say anything else, he had both hands up on the sill, brushing the glass onto the sidewalk and springing up into the window like a cat. Yes, she thought, that was a good image. Jane was like a cat, so often found dozing in the sun, that you forgot he still had claws and knew how to hunt.

He swiveled in the window, reached down a hand for her. "Come on."

"We shouldn't be doing this," she groaned, but took his hand nonetheless, and needed very little help in scaling the brick and squeezing through the small window. She landed beside him in a crouch on the floor of the distillery, and when she stood to take a look around, she was amazed.

"Wow," she muttered.

It was a huge dark warehouse, with many high windows allowing beams of sunlight to slice through the haze and dust and bounce off several large copper vats. Beams and metal pipes crisscrossed the ceiling space, and hundred-year-old kegs lay scattered around the floor, in various states of disrepair. There were also papers, cardboard, broken bottles and splinters of wood littering the ancient plank flooring. The whole place smelled rancid, and she couldn't tell if it was from the likelihood of very old malt on the premises, or if this was a hangout for street people from time to time.

It was very likely a combination of both.

"Fascinating," he said. "This has got to be over a hundred years old. Probably brewed local beers and ales since before the quake. Beautiful."

"What are we doing here?" .

"I wanted to get a look at the second floor of the Goth museum, but the Bukovys are still at the Station and that is a very old lock on their front door. Devilish tricky to pick. And it's apparent that all three of these places used to be part of the distillery, yeh, so it's possible, likely in fact, that they share a common third floor."

"Oh," she said. He made it sound so simple. "And how do we get to the possible, likely in fact, common third floor?"

He grinned and pointed to the far wall, where an open metal staircase led up to a catwalk above the vats, and to a door.

"Of course," she said, and followed him over to it, finding herself getting excited in the process. Everything with Jane was an adventure. She was beginning to feel like Nancy Drew.

He paused at the foot of the stair, one hand on the rail, and turned round, frowning.

"Now what?"

He frowned some more, made a face.

"What?"

"Oh dear…"

"What?! Jane!"

He made funny motions with his fingers in the air. "I just had a really bad thought."

"Okay?"

He looked at the largest copper vat back in the middle of the warehouse. "What did Mrs. Minor say about the cards?"

Her own face fell.

"Oh, no. You don't think…?"

"It fits."

"Oh no…" she groaned.

"Go check."

"_Me_ go check? Why don't_ you_ go check? It's _your_ really bad thought."

"You cop. Me consultant." And he made back and forth gestures with his hands. "Cop. Consultant. Cop. Consultant."

She snorted, spun on her heel and marched toward the largest of the vats. It was perched on metal struts about six feet off the floor, and its sides were at least that high. It looked to be 12-15 feet in diameter, and was accessible via a rickety metal ladder, bolted not-so-securely in place. As she began to climb, Jane circled the struts below, stooping in one place to swipe his fingers along the old planked floor.

"Rust," he called up to her. "Those hinges have been opened and recently."

"Great," she muttered, her voice echoing in the hazily-lit room. She paused at the top rung, reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of scrunched up latex gloves.

"Impressive." Jane grinned from below. "Boyscouts and the CBI. Always prepared."

She grinned too, snapped them on her delicate hands, and took a deep breath. "Okay, here goes…"

She tried to get a firm grip on the wide copper lip of the vat. It was very heavy, and she had to wiggle back and forth to even get some movement. "I don't know about this, Jane. It's on here pretty good."

"Keep trying."

"Easy for you to say," she grumbled. Still, she did keep trying, wiggling and sliding and prying until there was a suck of air and it began to move upwards. A lone fly buzzed out, as the stench hit her like a brick wall and she dropped it with a loud clang.

"Oh, Jane…" she groaned, twisting on the ladder to get some fresher air.

"Sorry. I do so hate always being right."

"No, you don't."

"How many are in there?"

"I don't know. Hang on…"

She took a very deep breath this time and pried the lid upwards once again, this time high enough so that she could lean her head over the side and peer in. Beams of sunlight snuck inside, illuminating the pile of bodies, entirely covered in dark red. The inside of the vat had red streaking down its inner walls, giving the impression that not everyone had been completely dead when dumped in here, and she felt her stomach lurch at the thought.

She let the lid go and released her breath, gasping to rid the odor from her nostrils. The smell of death lingered like musk – you could never get rid of it so easily. Sometimes it took days.

"Looks like four or five in there."

"Hm," Jane rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "Bukovy's secret stash."

She slid down the ladder and leaned against it for support, breathing deeply. "That's hideous. Absolutely hideous."

Jane cocked his head, studying her.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, I just never knew these things bothered you. You never let on. Nothing we've ever seen has seemed to disturb you."

"It's the job," she said, releasing a cleansing breath and straightening up. "You learn how to compartmentalize, I guess. Shut it away until the job is done, then deal with the emotions later."

"But it does disturb you."

She snorted. "Yeah. It does."

"Hm," he said again. "Good."

"I better call it in –" Just as the words escaped her mouth, her cell phone rang. She grabbed it from her jacket pocket.

"Cho?"

Her eyes grew wide. "No way! Damn it! _Damn it!"_ She stomped her foot, and placed a hand on her hip. "Cho, you need to send a couple of cars to the club. We have more bodies in the distillery here. Right." She folded the phone and glanced at Jane.

"Are you sure those planets haven't aligned themselves up yet, Mr. Psychic-Pants?"

He grinned. "Why?"

"Jeffrey Bukovy has just escaped from custody and sent two more cops to the hospital. They think he's on his way here."

"Oh, that's troublesome." He swung back to look at the staircase to the third floor. "We'd better get there, then, yeh? Before he makes mincemeat out of my mice." He looked at her with a worried expression.

"You go first."

She rolled her eyes, pulled out her Glock and dashed for the stairs.

_______________________________________________

They could hear the voices arguing long before they made it to the door that opened down to the 2nd floor. It was inside a shared landing, one that led one way to distillery offices, and the other to the nightclub, and the door itself had an odd, freezer-style pull-down handle. The voices belonged to two women, but, taking no chances, Lisbon held her weapon ready as she gripped the handle, pulled it down, and pushed her way into the lounge.

Helen Cava, aka Kiara Arabia, and Emily Johnson, aka Danae Harkness, spun around at the sight of Lisbon and Jane stepping through the wall of the nightclub. It had been painted to look like a gothic archway, and was almost impossible to see the outline of the door against the old plaster. It was next to the spiral stair that led down to the club proper, and there had obviously been architectural reconstruction at some point to hide the door, and Jane wondered abstractedly if Bukovy knew about this too.

"Oh please stop her!" cried Arabia, flinging a hand out toward her assistant. "She wants to kill me!"

Danae Harkness turned, the blade of a long knife catching the sunlight, shining in her hand.

Lisbon swung her weapon up in one smooth arc. "Don't move, Ms. Johnson."

"No," she moaned. "That's not true. I don't want to kill her..."

"It's alright, Emily. I know," agreed Jane, and he moved toward her slowly, smiling and nodding in his most reassuring manner. "You don't want to kill Kiara. You want to kill yourself. The gift of blood is a powerful thing, isn't it? It's a beautiful thing, the best, most precious gift anyone can offer…"

Harkness stared at him, her eyes distraught and brimming with tears. She nodded.

Lisbon firmed her grip on her Glock, just in case.

"In fact," soothed Jane. "You already gave her a gift, didn't you? Natasha Minor, or should I say, Natalia Goldheart. She was threatening Kiara's rule, usurping her authority, gaining support, wasn't she? So you killed her, spilled her blood as a love gift for your boss…"

He threw a glance at Arabia. Her eyes were as dark as storm clouds.

"But she didn't see, did she? She didn't accept that you could love her more than any man, that your love transcended time and gender and rules, the status quo. She kept right on with the others, even after your sacrifice of love…"

Harkness let out a sob, but raised the knife. It was shaking.

"She gets what she wants," Harkness moaned, plaintive at first, then growing harder. "And she wanted Natalia dead."

"That's not true! I never said –"

"Oh no, you never needed to say. But you wanted, and I always give you what you want. Don't you see why I do it? How can you not see what I do for you? What I would do?"

"You complete her," added Jane helpfully.

"Yes, I complete her. And still she doesn't see." The blonde turned to Jane, knife glinting in the sunlight. "But you understand, don't you? You said I should complete the transaction. Give her the ultimate gift, my own blood. You said it would be beautiful. You said you would be my witness."

"Ah yes, well, about that," he stole a glance at Lisbon, who was glowering at him. He turned back to Harkness. "That was really just to get you down here, so you would co-operate, confront Kiara and confess. Sorry, I was just playing you."

Her bottom lip trembled. "What?"

"Well, it was a little mercenary of me, I admit…"

Arabia's eyes flashed. "And what about me? You said that monster had escaped from custody and was on his way here. Was that a lie too?"

He grimaced. "Well, technically, yes, that was a lie too. But it's true now, isn't it Lisbon? Tell them it's true."

She smirked.

"Lisbon, tell them."

"You horrible liar," seethed Kiara Arabia.

"Actually, I'm a very good liar," said Jane. "But unfortunately, this one is true. Lisbon, please."

Harkness looked from Jane to Arabia and back again, utterly confounded, a wire pulled taut, threatening to snap.

"Kill him for me, Danae," purred Arabia, a smile spreading across her lips. "That is a gift I would accept from you, my sweet. Kill the man who lied to us both."

"Oh no," said Jane dismissively. "Not a good idea. My friend has a gun. She loves to shoot."

Harkness stared at him, transfixed.

"Right, Lisbon?" Jane frowned. "Lisbon?"

Lisbon grinned, her Glock still trained on Harkness. "Come on, Jane. There's no art in charging in like a bull in a china shop, is there? Where's the style in that?"

"It's not funny when you say it. Aren't you going to do something? She's got a knife."

Harkness raised the blade, still shaking, but there was a darkening in the icy blue eyes.

Lisbon sighed. Something inside her always loved to see Jane get a taste of his own medicine. It was part of the game they played. Still, a knife was a knife. "Put it down, Ms. Johnson."

Danae Harkness took a step toward the consultant, the point of the knife just feet away. He took a step backward, toward the nightclub owner.

"Lisbon?"

"Put down the knife, Ms. Johnson!" she ordered, more forcefully. "Don't make me do this."

"Do it," hissed Arabia, chocolate eyes flashing.

Another step. Another step back.

"Lisbon, anytime now…"

"Drop it! Now!"

A shadow passed across the mid-afternoon sun and suddenly, the high mullioned windows crashed inwards, sending shards of blackened glass raining down on the ebony floor, couches, lounge chairs and people inside _After Dark_. A dark shape hit the floor with a thud, and rose slowly, dangerously, to his feet.

"Oh dear," said Patrick Jane, suddenly caught between a rock and a hard place.

Morkaleb Spider was in the building.

_**End of Chapter 10**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Blood Red Moon**

_**Chapter 11**_

With his shirt was in tatters, his face paint almost gone, his black hair wild and loosed from its cue and his pointy teeth covered in long strings of saliva, Jeffrey Bukovy was a terrifying sight.

He straightened from his crouch, having landed on his feet like a cat, or a ninja, and he gazed at the four people, as if deciding the order of his menu. Appetizer, salad, main course, desert.

Patrick Jane swallowed. He had a very good idea what being dinner would feel like. He raised both hands in mock surrender.

Lisbon, fortunately, still had her weapon.

"Freeze! Police!" She braced her right hand with her left, index finger twitching at the ready. "Back on the floor! Hands on your head!"

Danae Harkness raised her knife, hoping that it might offer some protection against the man. Standing nearest the consultant, Kiara Arabia slipped in behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders like a human shield.

Bukovy snarled.

"Oh no no," said Jane, swiveling, trying to remove her hands. "Bad idea, bad idea…"

Bukovy coiled.

"See? Told you it was a bad idea! _Lisbon!"_

Bukovy charged.

The shot rang out, deafening them in the small room, but still the painted man rushed forward and the three of them went down with a crash, a tangle of arms and legs and dark clothing. Kiara screamed and rolled out from under them, scrambling away behind the bar. Jane tried to get free, but he was pinned between the bar and the furious Goth. It was all he could do to keep the teeth and claws at bay. Another shot, and another, and finally, Bukovy flailed, trying to control his limbs, as his actions became little more than spasms. Suddenly, he grew still.

"Jane!" Lisbon panted, weapon still braced, moving sideways like a SWAT force commando. "Jane, are you okay?"

"Is he dead?" came the muffled reply.

Cautiously, she nudged Bukovy with her shoe. He didn't respond, so she pushed harder, flipping him over so that the consultant could wriggle his way out from under the bigger man. Jane sprang to his feet and darted behind Lisbon, peering around her at the figure on the floor, dark red stains spreading across the pale white flesh of the man's back and ribs. The gruesome face twitched, and Jane jumped.

"Maybe you should shoot him again, just in case…"

Lisbon snorted. The sound of sirens approaching, and she glanced over her shoulder. "Take my cuffs. We need to get Ms. Harkness into custody."

Jane snatched them and crossed the floor to Danae Harkness, keeping one eye on the body on the floor. "Hi. Sorry, I have to… you know…"

"You lied to me."

"Bah. You killed a woman. Rock, paper, scissors. Murder trumps lying."

And without any resistance from her, he gingerly took the knife, tossed it to the ground and placed first one, then the other, handcuff on Danae Harkness. Suddenly, she was Emily Johnson, personal assistant to a nightclub owner, and Jane turned to the woman behind the bar.

"What about her?"

Kiara Arabia straightened and strolled out from cover, tossing her head and smoothing her clothing, looking for all the world like she had just 'dabbled' behind the bar, nothing more. "What _about_ me?"

"You tried to get Emily to kill me. That's a crime, isn't it, Lisbon? Isn't that a crime?"

Holstering her Glock, Lisbon couldn't help but grin. "Sorry, Jane. Many people would like to kill you. If that was a crime, half the state of California would be in jail."

He scowled at her, then turned back to Arabia. "You knew Emily would kill Natasha, didn't you? You wanted her to do it. You manipulated her from the start. You used her feelings for you to accomplish your ends…" Brows drawn in, he approached her, head cocked, curious. "In fact, I wonder if poor Jeffrey Bukovy wasn't another victim of your manipulations?

"_Poor_ Jeffrey Bukovy?" she purred.

"Well, relatively speaking. Was he? Did he kill all those men, just for you? You wouldn't even have to say a word. Did you even know he existed?"

He was very close now. She smiled at him, as beautiful and desirable as ever. "I guess you'll never know."

And she ran her tongue across her lips, a gesture of desire and defiance.

"We can charge her on conspiracy," said Lisbon, fascinated that Jane always seemed drawn to women with criminal pasts, purposes or intent. "But I doubt it'll stick."

He backed away, shaking his head and grinning. "Ah, no justice, Lisbon. No justice."

And as they waited for the rest of the team to join them, sunbeams streamed through the high broken windows, for the first time illuminating the Gothic lounge in light, warmth and colour.

"Hm," muttered Jane, gaze fixed on the unmoving body of Jeffrey Bukovy. "He's not burning up. I thought vampires burned up in the sunlight."

"Vampires don't always burn in sunlight, Mr. Jane," Arabia purred. "Sometimes we just sparkle."

And as she smiled, her jewelry, hair and chocolate eyes sparkled as beautifully as anything Jane had ever seen. He swallowed, rubbed his throat and headed to the stairs.

_________________________________

"Take it off."

"You shouldn't be taking it off."

"No no, let's see what it looks like."

"Yeah, take it off, man. I wanna see."

"I'm getting a headache."

Patrick Jane grinned as he sat, surrounded by his hovering colleagues, and lifted eloquent fingers to the tegaderm dressing at his throat. He winced as he gingerly pulled one sticky edge away from the tender skin.

"Go on," urged Rigsby. "Pull."

"No, slowly," urged Van Pelt. "It's still bruised."

Lisbon shook her head. "You shouldn't be doing that…"

"Bah," snorted Jane. And he pulled it off in one swift go. "Ow."

They all leaned in, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. Two perfect puncture marks, now a dark purple, graced his neck like jewels.

"Wow," said Van Pelt. "Just like in the movies."

"Cool, man. Very cool."

"I'm getting coffee," muttered Cho and he left the room, looking for all the world like he was going to be sick.

Lisbon pursed her lips. "Well, it doesn't look infected." She straightened. "You're really lucky."

"Yep, that's me. Lucky."

Det. Reuben Franks smiled. "Well, I hate to admit it, but you guys are good. I mean, we would've solved this, but maybe not so quickly."

"Of course," said Lisbon.

"You know we would've."

"When Jupiter aligns with Mars," said Jane, rolling up the bandage and tossing a perfect two-pointer into the nearest wastebasket.

"Yeah, and when love rules the stars," Franks nodded, sheepishly. "Yeah, probably then. We, uh, got matches on 6 of the 8 dead men. They go back over two years."

Jane shrugged, happy to oblige.

A shrill voice rose above the conversation in the outer offices, and Lisbon recognized it immediately.

"Is he here? Is he here? Where, oh where, is Mr. Patrick Jane?"

Jane's head snapped up and he rose to his feet, looking at Lisbon, wide-eyed in panic. She grinned.

A woman in lime green silks swept into the makeshift office, followed by her dock-worker husband. Her face lit up when she spied Jane, pausing only slightly for dramatic effect, before hurrying forward and throwing her thin arms around his neck.

If he could have, he would have bolted, but she had him locked up good, and so he just grimaced, tried to smile, tried to look genuine as he tapped her back a few times for good measure. Still, she wouldn't let go. He reached around and took her hands, pulling them away as if consoling her. She beamed, grasped his hands now in a death grip, pulling them up to her face, very much in his personal space.

"I knew you would do it. I just knew. Didn't I, Vincent? Didn't I tell you Mr. Patrick Jane would be the one to solve this case? I just knew."

"Yes, pet," he grunted, grudgingly eying the consultant. "You did tell me."

"And you did, Mr. Jane. I knew you could reach our daughter. She was very much in tune with the spirit world. Like you."

"Yes, well," he slid his eyes to Lisbon, who was obviously enjoying this. "It was my pleasure."

"And thank _you,"_ added Lisbon. "For the rooms at _the Fairmont._ It isn't like our usual accommodations."

Anita Minor gasped, stretching the skin across her facial bones so tightly it looked like she might snap. "Yes, you poor dear. Now how many people can say they have been bitten by a vampire? Was it horrendous? Was it exciting? Was it transcendent?"

"Painful."

"Horrendously painful?"

Despite himself, Jane grinned. "Transcendently painful."

"How exciting! And they put you in the VIP suite, didn't they? I told them to take special care of you. I did, didn't I, Vincent? I told them, 'now you take good care of Mr. Patrick Jane'…"

"Yes, pet, you told them."

Lisbon grinned. Finally, a woman Jane didn't know how to handle. There was something terribly odd about Mrs. Minor, but terribly honest, and she could tell he was perplexed and off-balance but perhaps a little bit charmed. At least he wasn't being nasty, as he had been with her husband. That, she realized, was a blessing.

Finally, the woman released her grip on Jane's hands, and stood back to admire him. "Ah, well, dear. Only the best for the best," she said in her singsong voice, and Rigsby and Van Pelt rolled their eyes.

"We, ah, have to get back to Sacramento," said Jane. "More…dead people…"

"Ah yes, your work is never done, is it? You have such a gift…"

Cho had walked in the room with his coffee, and at that statement, he turned on his heel and walked right out again.

"One more thing before you fly off…" She turned over a palm, eyes glittering. "Please, do me the honor."

He stared at her, brows furrowed, not entirely certain what she was asking. He hadn't read palms in more years than he could remember, certainly not during his career as renowned psychic and most certainly never as a consultant with the CBI. He was, quite frankly, puzzled.

Curious, now, he took her hand, getting a weight of it, a feel of it, thin, bony, delicate, nails painted elaborate fuchsia, a multitude of rings, but there was something about it, something wrong. He pulled it closer, studied the condition of her nails, the cuticles, the skin. Turned it over, traced her lifeline with his thumb, paused, traced it again. Moved his fingers up to the pulse on her wrist. Finally, he looked at her. He didn't know how to say it.

Her expression said it all. "It's alright, dear. I know. I will be following my daughter very soon, won't I?"

He nodded.

"I just wanted to know for sure." She smiled at him, a silent screen starlet, fading in the wake of sound. She turned and laid a hand on her husband. "We may go now, handsome. Please take me home."

And the Deputy Mayor and his enigmatic wife left the office, as abruptly as they had come.

Jane put his hands in his pockets, thinking. Lisbon gave him a nudge.

"So?" she asked, "What was that all about?"

He looked at her. "Ovarian cancer. She's dying."

Lisbon felt the smile fade from her face. "Oh…"

Franks shook his head. He now knew better than to question.

Lisbon offered her hand. "Thanks, Det. Franks, for all your help."

Handshakes all around, except for Jane, whose hands remained firmly thrust in his jacket pockets. Franks pulled back, looked at his feet, clearly uncomfortable.

"Uh, sorry man, if I dissed you before. No hard feelings?"

"Reuben, you're an ass," Jane said, matter-of-factly. "Good-hearted, yeh, and well-meaning, but small-minded, under-achieving, pedantic and utterly linear. This is the end of the line for you, my friend, unless you make some changes. Call your wife. Take care of your mother. Be better than your job. Make things right. You have no idea the price of regret."

He turned to Lisbon. "I'll be waiting in the van." And he turned on his heel and walked out of the office.

"Well," she said, shrugging, her face pained but unapologetic. "Goodbye."

There was really nothing else to say, and the CBI team left the Eddy Street station and the Tenderloin vampires, far far behind.

________________________________________

The flight _back _to Sacramento was not as packed as the flight _out_ of Sacramento had been, and they sat in a row near the back. They had enjoyed a big dinner at the Tongo Lounge of the _Fairmont _before leaving, its Pacific Rim cuisine promising flavours unknown to the American palette. Jane had debated on choosing the Puffer fish, but when they had reminded him of the previous consequences of grilled octopus, he decided on the salmon just to be safe.

Van Pelt and Rigsby sat next to each other, playing some sort of Dutch card game. Rigsby was losing badly, already having lost at least five dollars, and probably into her for a lot more. Lisbon grinned. He didn't seem to mind. Cho was reading a book, one Van Pelt had given him to help him overcome his pathological fear of vampires. It was a black hardcover, with cover-art illustration of two hands holding an apple. Cho was quite engrossed. In fact, at one point, Lisbon could have sworn she saw him wipe a tear from his eye.

Jane was next to her, and she watched him from the corner of her eye. He had the window seat and he had been very quiet on this flight, eyes heavy and frequently closing as they stared out into the dark night sky. Earlier, she had seen him toss back two small white pills, anitbiotics or pain killers she couldn't tell, and down them with an airline Scotch, served in a clear plastic cup. She shook her head, wondering how long he could go on sheer force of will alone, and when all his coping mechanisms would coming crashing down in tatters around him.

Part of her wanted to be there when it happened. The other part was terrified at the prospect. Whenever it happened, it wouldn't be pretty.

She caught him looking at her and he smiled.

"Wanna see a magic trick?" he asked softly.

She smiled in return. "Sure."

"Pull out the fortune cookie that's still in your pocket."

Pursing her lips, she did what she was told.

"Now, open it up, break it in half, give me a piece because I'm starving, and read the fortune out loud."

She grinned again, did what she was told, handed him half the cookie, which he popped into his mouth and munched happily. She popped the other piece, and carefully unfolded the tiny rolled slip of paper.

"What does it say?"

"'_Magic is all around you. In fact, it's closer than you think.'"_

He grinned. "Abracadabra." And leaned back in his seat, casting his eyes out the window once again.

"Did you pick my pocket?"

"And removed the cellophane wrapping, broke open the cookie, took out the fortune, slipped in a new one, sealed both the cookie and the wrapping back up again, and put it all back in your pocket without you noticing? Yes, of course, I did all that."

She furrowed her brow. "Then, how did you do it?"

He closed his eyes, smiling. "Magic."

She snorted, shook her head, closed her own eyes to try to get some sleep.

Her cell phone rang. It was Reuben Franks.

"This is Lisbon. Yeah? What?....You're kidding. You're kidding!....That's impossible! Okay, keep me posted, but remember, this is no longer our case, got it? You guys can handle it from here…Right."

She hung up, all her team's eyes on her.

She cleared her throat.

"There was a fire downtown Tenderloin. The distillery, Goth Shop and Club burned to the ground. Kiara Arabia has disappeared. Her apartment has been cleared out and SFPD has an APB out on her for questioning."

They sat for a moment, taking it all in.

"And?" said Jane.

"And what?"

"And what else?"

"Nothing. There's nothing else."

"Lying."

She pursed her lips again, frowning. "Well, don't get all paranoid…"

"I won't."

"You will."

"I won't."

"Okay." She paused, glancing from face to face at her team. "Jeffrey Bukovy's body has disappeared from the morgue and the coroner was sent to hospital with bite marks on his neck."

Silence again from the back of the plane.

Cho closed the vampire book with a thwap. Van Pelt snagged it and clutched it to her chest, sighing. Rigsby glanced over at Jane. "Very cool."

Patrick Jane raised a hand to rub his throat and swallowed. Hard.

Teresa Lisbon smiled, closed her eyes and slept the rest of the flight back to Sacramento.

_**The end**_


End file.
